Appalachian Dead Draw
by EKWTSM9
Summary: A road trip back east turns out to be more of an adventure than Mike and Steve could have ever imagined.
1. Chapter 1

**To my loyal readers, a hearty thank you; and a small warning, I might not be posting a chapter a day for this one, but I will do my best. I hope you enjoy - and I appreciate everyone who reads and everyone who reviews. I do this for the love of the characters and their world - and do not profit in any way except with pure enjoyment. I hope it is mutual.**

Inspector Steve Keller looked up from the file on his desk as his partner entered the bullpen and crossed wearily to his office. The sun had set long ago and the inspector and a couple of others were the only ones manning the large semi-dark room.

Lieutenant Mike Stone, trying to suppress a yawn while attempting to work the kinks out of his stiff neck, stood beside his desk and looked around, as if suddenly unsure why he was there. Steve got up and, with a warm smile, moved silently to the inner office door. "You should sit down before you fall down," he said with a quiet chuckle. "Was the meeting that boring?"

The yawn finally breaking surface, Mike closed his eyes and threw his head back with a heavy sigh. "Roy and I were taking bets as to which one of us was going to fall asleep first. I'm not sure who won – I think it was a tie." He shook his head quickly to wake himself up. "I didn't expect you to stick around."

"Well, I didn't have a date tonight, and I figured you might need someone to drive you home so you wouldn't fall asleep behind the wheel."

Mike looked at him with amused skepticism. "Just how long do you think it takes me to drive home?" he asked with a quick laugh, but he knew the real reason behind the weak excuse. Steve had just broken up with his latest 'flame', this one lasting over three months, and he didn't relish the idea of going home to an empty apartment. The young man had a habit of becoming 'clingy' whenever he was recovering from a battered heart.

Chuckling, Steve motioned with his head towards the coat rack. "Pack up and let's get out of here. We'll need to pick up something to eat on the way. And let's make ourselves scarce before the phone rings."

"Yeah, sounds like a plan," Mike replied sluggishly as he crossed around behind his desk to clear it off. He had just taken his .38 out of the top side drawer and was clipping it onto his belt when the phone rang. He looked at the phone and froze, then glanced up into the bullpen, meeting his partner's eyes.

With a sardonic smile, shake of his head and a chuckle, Steve continued to clear up his desk and put on his jacket.

With obvious reluctance, Mike picked up the handset. "Homicide, Stone."

Ready to go, Steve moved slowly to the inner office door and leaned against the frame. Other than the occasional "Yes" and "I see", Mike barely said anything as the one-sided conversation dragged on. He glanced up at his young partner, his look unreadable, then sat.

Frowning, Steve pushed away from the door and dropped into the guest chair, staring at his partner, who's own countenance was unfocused but obviously concerned.

"So, ah, when would you need us to leave? That is, if we agree, and we're a team on this, of course." He glanced up at Steve but the younger man could glean nothing from the still neutral expression. After another long silence, Mike said, "Okay, well, let me talk to Steve and I'll get back to you as soon as I can… Yeah, it won't be long."

Another pause. "All right, thanks." Mike hung up the receiver and sat back as Steve leaned forward.

"So, ah, what do you have to talk to me about?" the inspector asked, unable to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

Mike was still staring at the phone. "Well, that's a first," he said quietly, sounding a little awed.

"Mike, I need a little more information here…" Steve chuckled, waving his fingers in a 'come on, come on' gesture.

"Ah, yeah, well, seems that Rudy heard that things have been kinda quiet down here the last few days, and he was wondering if we could give Narcotics a hand."

"A hand? What, undercover?"

"No, not quite. They've had a nationwide APB out for a guy who's been running heroin and cocaine in North Beach and the 'Loin. They finally managed to turn one of his runners against him, they've got him dead to rights, but he took off a couple of weeks ago before they could collar him and disappeared. They knew he was from back east, rural Kentucky, and they figured he went back there.

"Well, this morning they got a call from a small town in the Appalachian Mountains in southeast Kentucky – they got the guy. Some small town sheriff got the APB and knew who the guy was and they nabbed him."

Steve nodded, impressed. "So, ah, so how do you and I figure into this?"

Mike took a deep breath and sighed, trying not to grin. "Well, ah, they gotta get this guy back here and as Narcotics is up to its proverbial eyeballs in cases right now, and we're sort of in a lull, as he put it, Rudy was wondering if you and I might, ah, take a road trip and bring this guy back."

"He wants us to _drive_ to Kentucky and back?" Steve spluttered, sitting back.

"No, not _drive_ , Mr. Literal," Mike shot back with widened eyes and a shake of his head. "We'd fly to Louisville and rent a car."

"Oh, well, that makes more sense." Steve nodded with a facial shrug. "So, you have reservations about us going…?"

"Well, I wanted to talk to you first, of course. I can't make the decision for both of us."

"Since when," Steve said under his breath, and Mike pretended not to hear.

"So, do you want to do it?"

"When do we go… if we go?"

"Tomorrow morning."

Steve thought about it. "So, what, we just get there, drive to this small town and pick this guy up, drive back to Louisville and fly out?"

"I guess."

"We don't get to do any sight-seeing?"

"You want to sight-see?"

"Well, I've never been to Kentucky before, have you?"

"No. I never really thought about it."

"Well, how long does it take to drive from Louisville to this town, whatever it is?"

"I have no idea."

"You're just a font of information, aren't you?" Steve chuckled.

"Hey, I got the bare bones from Rudy, 'cause I wanted to talk to you about it first," Mike whined, shaking his head in friendly frustration. Steve laughed harder, sitting back and crossing his legs, enjoying the moment. "All right, smarty, I'll get more information, but do you want to go or not?"

"Of course I want to go. Are you kidding? A free trip halfway across the country? Why not?" He lowered his eyes, staring at the older man. "What? Don't you want to go?"

Mike stifled another yawn, then he nodded with a smile. "Yeah, sure, why not? It'll be good to get away, even if it's only for a couple a days. I've never been to that part of the country; it might be nice to see some of it. And like you said, on someone else's dime, that works for me too."

Steve clapped his hands and began to stand. "All right. So why don't you call Rudy and tell him we'll do it and then we gotta get out of here and pack."

Mike chuckled at his partner's sudden enthusiasm. Grinning, he reached for the phone to dial the captain's number. He knew the break and the change of scenery would go a long way in healing the romantic turbulence in the young man's life.

# # # # #

Mike tossed his suitcase into the trunk of the tan LTD then got into the passenger seat. As the large sedan pulled away from the curb in front of his house, he glanced over at the driver. Steve couldn't seem to contain his enthusiasm.

"You know it's gonna take us almost all day to get there, right?" he said gently.

"Yeah, I know, but, Mike, come on, a road trip? You gotta love it. I know the other guys're gonna be jealous." He chuckled almost sadistically and Mike laughed.

"Well, what with the time difference and all that, we'll be lucky to get to the airport motel by dinnertime tonight. I talked to the sheriff in Kearney, and he said he'd be expecting us late tomorrow night, if the weather holds out and we can make the trip from Louisville to Kearney in one day. It's quite a haul." Mike had taken a Kentucky map out of his inside topcoat pocket and put on his glasses. "We gotta go through Lexington and down through the mountains on I-75. But they're expecting a lot of rain tomorrow so who knows?"

"What, you don't think I have enough experience driving up and down hills in the rain? I mean, come on, give me a challenge," Steve laughed, "throw in some San Francisco fog, just to make it interesting."

Mike chuckled and shook his head as he put the map away. "I know, I know, you can give Mario Andretti a run for his money. I just want to get there, enjoy the scenery, pick up this Donald Lee Rutter, and get back here, all in one piece, if that's not too much to ask."

"Hey, Mike, I can control what happens in the car, but I can't control what happens in the air, you know what I mean?" Steve knew that the older man was a little apprehensive about flying. He couldn't resist a little ribbing.

"Yeah, I know," Mike said quietly, looking out the side window and swallowing heavily.

# # # # #

The plane turned off of the taxiway and they could feel the pushback as it began to gain speed, barreling down the runway faster and faster. Steve, who had been staring out the window, turned to look at his seatmate. Mike, holding his fedora on his lap, had laid his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. He was immobile.

Steve's face split into a delighted grin but he managed to keep his laughter muted. His head bobbing in silent mirth, he looked back out the window in time to feel the wheels leave the ground. He could hear Mike's sudden intake of breath.

' _This is going to be fun,'_ the younger man thought.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve put two cardboard cups of coffee on the small fibreglass table. Mike glanced up from his study of the Kentucky map and nodded his thanks. Steve sat and looked at his watch. "We've got twenty minutes till we have to be at the gate."

Mike sighed. "We would've been there by now if we didn't have to fly through here first," he grumbled.

Steve nodded in agreement, swallowing a smile. He knew Mike was right, a direct flight from San Francisco to Louisville would have been more convenient and efficient; the stopover in L.A. not only meant a much longer journey, it also meant another take-off and landing, two things that made the older man uncharacteristically nervous.

After taking a sip of his coffee, Mike looked at his companion over his black glasses.

"If we get an early start tomorrow morning, we should make pretty good time towards Kearney on the Interstate. From the looks of this, it's about a hundred or so miles to Kearney once we get off the 75 so that's going to slow us up, I bet. Especially if it's raining."

Steve grinned and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "Bring it on," he chuckled.

Smiling widely as he took off his glasses and put them in his inside jacket pocket, Mike shook his head, "Don't worry, Mario, I'm letting you do all of the driving."

# # # # #

Steve woke with a start when the pillow hit his head. He batted it away and sat up quickly, disoriented. His eyes finally settled on the grinning apparition of his partner silhouetted in the light from the motel bathroom, buttoning his dress shirt.

"Get up, sleepyhead, it's time to hit the road."

Glancing once more around the dark room, and discerning no trace of sunlight peeping around the heavy curtains, Steve shook his head and cleared his throat. "What time is it?" he mumbled as he squinted towards the clock/radio on the small table pinned between the twin beds. 5:58 a.m. "Jeez, Mike, the sun isn't even up yet."

Ignoring the whine, Mike finished buttoning his shirt and started tucking it into his pants. "Yeah, well, the sun doesn't have to drive half-way across the state today. Rise and shine." Laughing, he stepped deeper into the bathroom and closed the door.

Shaking his head to wake himself up, Steve crawled to the end of the bed and, rubbing a hand over his face, lowered his feet to the floor and yawned. It was going to be a long day.

# # # # #

"Wow, this is pretty country," Mike said again as the dark green '74 Ford Galaxie came over a crest in the highway, revealing another stunning mountain vista of rolling hills and lush forest. Even with the heavy cloud cover, it was a breathtaking sight.

Fiddling with the knob on the radio, trying to find a station through the static, Steve nodded once more. "Sure is." He had gotten over his initial irritation at Mike's selection of rental car. There had been two sweet Mustangs on the lot and available but Mike had asked for the Galaxie instead, over Steve's requesting, pleading, finagling and finally grousing.

The Galaxie made more sense of course, seeing as their goal was to transport a prisoner and they needed the room as opposed to the flash. Still, the trip would have been that much more fun in a cherry red sports car.

The map spread out on the seat between them, Mike took another glance at it. "So we're getting off at junction 15, Williamsburg – then we head sorta northeast from there. Do you want to grab something to eat before then?"

"Might as well. That way once we're off the Interstate, we can just plow on."

"Makes sense to me. Hunh, I wonder what the local specialties are around here?"

# # # # #

Steve speared a ball of deep-fried dough and brought it up to eye level. "I always thought a hushpuppy was a shoe," he said with a small chuckle.

"Well, as long as it doesn't taste like a shoe," Mike said with a quiet laugh as he speared one himself and popped it into his mouth. The younger man watched as he chewed then swallowed. "Actually, that's pretty good." He impaled another one. "But I think there's enough deep-fried stuff on this plate to last me a month. Better not tell Jeannie what we ate, she'll have me on salads for the next year!"

Steve put the hushpuppy in his mouth and chewed, his eyebrows rising in surprise. "Not bad at all," he said with smile after he'd swallowed.

"The catfish is really good too," Mike added after sampling the fillet on his plate, "I just wish they didn't deep fry _everything_. This would have been great sautéed with a little lemon and dill, but hey, when in Rome…"

"When did you become such a gourmand?"

Mike chuckled as he cut another piece of catfish with his fork. "I decided to broaden my interests lately, and Jeannie bought me this really nice cookbook for my birthday so I've started to do a little experimenting. I'm not quite up to asking you to be a guinea pig yet but that day is coming, my boy, be forewarned."

Laughing, Steve stabbed another hushpuppy. "I'm game, just ask me." He glanced around the half-filled restaurant, with its dark-hued hominess. "We're gonna have to at least try some real Kentucky bourbon before we head home, you know."

"Yeah, maybe tomorrow night after we get everything squared away and we're back in Louisville with Rutter. And it'll be on me. What do you say?"

Steve looked up and grinned. "You got it." He picked up his coffee cup. "Here's to a quick and safe trip."

Smiling, Mike picked up his coffee and they clinked cups. "Here here."

# # # # #

The county roads proved a little harder to negotiate than the Interstate, and the rain didn't help, even though it was lighter than expected. It was well after dark before the Galaxie pulled into Keaney and it took another 20 minutes for them to find the Buttercup Motel and Restaurant, where they had reservations for the night.

Grateful that the rain had finally stopped, they exited the car yawning and stretching. Mike went into the office to register and get the key while Steve took a short walk around the parking lot to work out the kinks.

Mike exited through the screen door with a smile, holding up two sets of keys. "We have separate rooms."

"Excellent," the younger man breathed, heading back to the car. That meant he wouldn't be woken with a pillow to the head in the morning; it'd be a phone call or a pounding on the door, but still…

"Rooms 12 and 14, down that way," Mike pointed to his right. He started to walk in that direction as Steve got back in the car and drove it the short distance. Within ten minutes, they were both fast asleep.

# # # # #

Steve woke slowly, pushing the pillow off his forehead and squinting in the bright morning sunshine illuminating the room through the paperthin curtains. With a groan and a frown, he sat up and glanced at his watch. 8:21. Surprised that it was so late, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself up, reaching for his pants on the small armchair against the wall.

After a quick trip to the bathroom, he threw his shirt, socks and shoes on, took the chain off the door and stepped out into the blinding sunshine and crisp mountain air. The door to the next room was open and he stepped into the frame.

Mike, fully dressed and sitting at the small table reading a newspaper, glanced up nonchalantly. "I was wondering when you were going to get up. We have to be at the police station at 9, you know. You're cutting it a little fine, aren't you?"

Shaking his head to wake himself up some more and running a hand through his unkempt hair, Steve cleared his throat. "Um, I kinda thought you'd wake me."

"Me? Why, am I your nanny?" Mike chuckled. "You're a big boy, you can get up by yourself."

With a smirk, Steve rubbed his hand over his eyes. "What time did _you_ get up?"

Mike turned a page of the paper. "Oh, I've been up for ages. Went for a walk, had breakfast in the diner over there," he nodded to his right and Steve automatically looked in that direction, noticing a small restaurant attached to the motel, "and bought a paper." He hefted the newspaper in his hands. "I also found out it's about a five minute drive to the police station, so if you hustle, you can grab a quick breakfast before we have to leave."

After a moment of stunned silence, Steve turned and headed back to his room.

"Try the country ham and the cornbread, it's really good. And the coffee's pretty decent too," Mike called after him.

# # # # #

"Welcome to Kearney, Lieutenant, Inspector," Sheriff Eli Noble stepped forward as Mike and Steve got out of the Galaxie in front of the small red brick police station. He shook hands with both big city detectives, a wide grin on his pleasant, florid face.

Smiling broadly, Mike nodded. "It's a real pleasure to be here, Sheriff, you have a beautiful state."

"Eli, please, Lieutenant," the paunchy Kentuckian chuckled cordially. "We're all on a first name basis here." He nodded over his shoulder at his two deputies.

"All right then, Eli," Mike laughed, "I'm Mike. This is my partner, Steve Keller," he introduced the younger man to the others.

"Steve," the junior detective said warmly as he shook hands all around.

"Lonny Carruthers," a tall, lanky deputy with a military crewcut said amiably. "Lonny."

"Lonny, good to meet you," Mike said warmly, then turned to the other officer. "Then you must be Alfie."

"Yes, sir," the slight blond young man said with delighted wonder, "Deputy Alfie Carter, sir. Pleased to meet you."

"Mike, don't forget," the senior detective said, waving a friendly admonishing finger, "I don't answer so well to 'sir'."

"Yes, sir," Carter said seriously then grinned.

Noble gestured towards the building. "Shall we, gentlemen?"

# # # # #

Cups of fresh coffee in hand, Noble leaned over his desk towards his guests. "So, I'll send Lonny and Alfie off right now to the camp and pick Rutter up. They should be back by mid-afternoon at the latest."

"So he's not here?" Steve asked, exchanging a perplexed glance with his partner.

"Ah, no," Noble said vaguely, leaning back and looking down at his desk. "We really don't have the facilities here to keep someone like Rutter safe and we thought it prudent to put him somewhere with a bit more… security until you guys could get him out of the county."

"And why is that?" Mike asked slowly, confused and suddenly a little more than mildly concerned.

Noble looked at his deputies. "Fellas, you want to hit the road?"

"Yes, sir," Carruthers said, putting on his campaign hat and nodding at Carter. With another quick nod towards the San Francisco detectives, they wheeled away and left the office.

Noble took a deep breath. "The Rutter family is pretty notorious in these parts for their – how shall I put it? - run-ins with the law. They have a family history of 'shining – ah, moonshining – and running drugs in this part of the county. And legend has it both the father and the grandfather have more than one notch on their belts for 'eliminating the competition', so to speak.

"They live over in one of the hollers west of here and there's an unwritten code in the hills here that no-one – and I mean _no-one_ – goes in there, including us. They are a law unto themselves."

Mike and Steve exchanged uneasy glances.

"So, you think that they'd try to break Donald Rutter out of custody?" Mike asked.

"Donald _Lee,_ " Noble corrected gently with a chuckle. "You've got to use the entire name around here."

Mike made a face. "Sorry," he said with a short laugh that Steve shared, "Donald Lee."

Noble shook his head in resignation. "Well, I wouldn't put anything past Robert E. Lee Rutter."

Steve's eyebrows shot up. "That's his father's name?"

Chuckling once more, Noble nodded. "Swear to God. Familial allegiances die hard around here."

"I take it you're not a local," Mike ventured carefully with a smile.

Noble snorted. "No, you're right. I'm from over in the western part of the state. Didn't have much experience with the hill people and their 'shine and their feuds before I was transferred here. I must say, it's been an eye-opener."

"I bet," Steve said quietly.

"Look, ah," Noble continued, "it'll be a few hours till Carruthers and Carter get back here with Rutter. Why don't I fill you guys in on some of the, ah, shall I say 'challenges' that we face here?"

Nodding, Mike leaned forward. "I'd like that, Eli."


	3. Chapter 3

"So, this is where we are," Noble pointed to a small dot on the county map on the wall, "this here's the holler were the Rutters rule," he chuckled as he moved his finger a bit, "and this is the road you guys are gonna take to get outa town." The last was a thin black line, snaking its way from Kearney back towards the Interstate.

"Yeah, that's the way we came in," Steve nodded, staring at the map. He was a little uncomfortable at how close the road seemed to be to the Rutter property.

"Yeah," said Noble, picking up on the younger detective's concern. "That's why we want to get you guys on the road as soon as possible. Get you out of the county and at least back on the Interstate before nightfall. The less time you spend around here, the better it'll be for all of us."

Mike, who had been studying the map closely, took a step back and removed his glasses. He looked at his partner. "I wonder if Rudy knew just how volatile things are around here?" He turned to Noble, who was eyeing him questioningly. "You see, we're not really involved in this particular case; we're homicide cops. We're in a bit of a lull in murders to solve right now, god knows why, and our drug guys are swamped, so our captain thought it might be a lark for Steve and me to make this trip. He made it sound like a piece of cake."

Noble chuckled. "Well, it will be if you make it to the Interstate before dark," he said almost cryptically. When he saw the two west coast cops exchange a troubled look, he continued quickly, "Don't worry about it – you'll have an escort. Both of my deputies and myself will be convoying with you, in separate cars, and we have state troopers on alert to pick you guys up at the 15 interchange and escort you all the way into Louisville."

Seeing his visitors relax slightly, he added with a laugh, "We ain't lost an out-of-state cop yet."

"And just how many out-of-state cops have you had here in Kearney?" Steve asked with a knowing tilt of his head, half-anticipating the answer.

Noble grinned, knowing he'd been caught out. "Well, you two'd be the first."

Both detectives laughed. "Say, ah," Steve asked when the laughter died, "you mentioned before about sending Lonny and Alfie to pick Rutter up at a 'camp'? You can't mean an actual, you know, _camp_ , right?"

Noble laughed again. "Ah, no, not quite. It's a minimum security institution – but don't worry, it has just enough manpower to scare off the Rutter family – they don't like to wander that far from home so we knew we were safe sending Donald Lee there. It's called the Bell County Forestry Camp because they use the inmates there to fight forest fires during fire season. It's been around since '62. Got a good rep."

"Humh," Steve snorted, impressed. "How about that?"

Mike chuckled. "So, ah, Eli, what kind of policing do you guys do around here?"

Noble took a deep breath as he crossed around to his desk chair and sat; the two visitors dropped into his guest chairs. "Well, I don't know if I'd call it _policing_. It's not like what I used to do over in Paducah, that's for sure. Here, they pretty well police themselves, if you can call it that. Coffee?"

"Sure," Mike answered for them both as they followed Noble's lead and stood, turning towards the coffee pot and mugs sitting on a nearby table.

The sheriff laughed. "Oh god, I didn't mean here. By this time of the day our stuff'll clean the rust off a '42 Dodge. Let's head over to the diner across the street. They make a mean cup of coffee and an even meaner apple pie."

# # # # #

"No, what I meant was, the families that run 'shine around these parts, well, they've been a law unto themselves for generations, going back decades, if not a century or more. They're a part of the land here, a part of the fabric of this part of the country, to wax poetic, and not in a good way, lemme tell ya."

"So are we talking Hatfield's and McCoy's here or what?" Steve asked, putting his cup on the table but keeping his hand on it.

"At least," Noble chuckled as he forked another piece of pie into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed before he continued. "There hasn't been a murder since I've been here, but then again, I've only been here a little over a year. Before that, I heard, there was a murder just about every eight months or so."

"Over what?" Mike asked, as equally intrigued as his partner.

"Running 'shine mostly. You see, almost all the families in the hollers rely on 'shine to make a living. Since the coal mines played out, there's no other way to make a living here, and these folks are way, way below the poverty line. But they sure know how to make good 'shine. Trouble is, the… ah… _market_ for 'shine is kinda small so it's become a very competitive little industry around here, and people are very, very sensitive about someone encroaching on their territory."

"Sensitive enough to kill?" Mike asked, brow furrowing.

"And that's just for starters. They use a lot of arson too. Just last year, someone's house burned to the ground with a memaw and her two grandbabies in it." The detectives looked at each other. "Don't worry about not hearing anything about it – nobody outside of Harlan and Bell Counties heard about it. These people don't mean nothing to nobody."

Swallowing heavily, Steve leaned over the table. "So how many families are involved in all this?"

"Four. The Rutters, the Scobies, the Kings and the Caudills. You don't want to mess with any of them. And as bad as the Rutters are, the Caudills are the worst. I know they're up there somewhere, in a holler northwest of town here, beyond the Rutters even, but I've had no dealings with them yet, thank god. But from what I've heard, they'll kill anyone, and I mean anyone, if they get in the way of them getting their 'shine distilled and distributed."

"So… you've never met this family…. the _Caudills_ , is it?" Mike asked, slightly overwhelmed by what they were hearing. "Don't they ever come into town for, I don't know, groceries or gas or whatever?"

Noble shook his head. "Nope. They grow their own food, hunt for their own meat, have their gas delivered. The only time we ever see any of 'em is when they come into town to buy supplies for their stills. Oh, they grow their own corn and barley but they have to buy the sugar and the yeast, so all the families make the trip into town once or twice a year and buy their supplies."

"Well, if making and selling moonshine is illegal, then how come they can buy all the sugar and the yeast they need to make it?" Steve asked, fascinated by this slice of rural Americana he heretofore had no real idea about. "Wouldn't the county and the state be able to put a stop to all this just by restricting the amount of sugar or yeast that could be bought or sold?"

Noble's grin was both ironic and long-suffering. "Believe me, Steve, we have thought of that, and there was a sheriff back in the early 60's who actually tried to enforce that very thing. He was shot three times in the back. They never caught whoever did it – and nobody's tried to stop the sale of 'shine supplies since." Noble winked and chuckled. "And I ain't gonna be the first to buck the tide, let me tell ya."

The genial sheriff with the impossible job pushed the plate of piecrust crumbs to the end of the table and sat back. "Nope, as long as they're only killing each other, I'm gonna let 'em go at it. But the second they leave their hollers and start coming after me or my men or someone from town, then that'll be another story altogether."

Mike, who had listened to all this in rapt concentration, sat back on the booth bench and looked at his partner. "Wow," he said quietly, "and I thought our job was tough."

# # # # #

Donald Lee Rutter turned out to be a little runt of a man. Both Carruthers and Carter seemed to loom over him as Carter dragged him from the back of the blue and white patrol car, his hands cuffed in front of him. They propelled him up the stairs and into the station; Carter pushed him down onto a wooden chair just inside the door as Carruthers continued on to the inner office and knocked on the door.

Noble exited the office first, followed by Mike and Steve. Both San Francisco detectives almost did a double take when their eyes fell on the object of their quest. Mike couldn't resist a sidelong glance at his partner, his eyes widening in disbelief. Noble noticed the interaction and masked his laugh behind a cough.

With a shake of his head, Mike approached the small, almost feral looking prisoner, taking his badge out of his pocket. He flipped the black case open for Rutter to see the star and the ID card. "Donald Lee Rutter, I'm Lieutenant Stone, this is Inspector Keller," he nodded over his shoulder towards Steve, "and we're here to escort you back to San Francisco to stand trial for the distribution and sale of narcotics."

Rutter, who had glanced at Mike's badge, looked away insolently. When the detective finished talking, he hawked and spit on the floor at Mike's feet. Carter, who was standing nearby, kicked the chair, startling Rutter, who looked up quickly with a wide, toothy grin.

Noble took a step closer, putting himself between Rutter and Mike, and turned to his deputies. "We're gonna want to get on the road as soon as possible, so why don't you boys take Mr. Rutter here over to the diner and all three of you have some lunch and then we'll hit the road. I want to be on our way in an hour. Does that work for everyone?" he asked, surveying the room.

"Yes, sir," both deputies replied in unison as Carter reached for Rutter's arm and pulled him to his feet.

Mike nodded, glancing at his partner, then took a step closer to Noble. "Can I make a call back home? I want to let our captain know we're on our way."

"No problem." Noble led Mike back towards his office.

Steve watched as Carter and Carruthers disappeared through the police station door with their prisoner between them. Rutter looked like he wouldn't be much of a problem, but something in the back of his mind was telling him that all was not quite as it seemed. An apprehension was growing that he couldn't shake, and it had everything to do with the journey home.


	4. Chapter 4

It was close to 3 p.m. by the time everything was arranged and the small convoy left the police station. Sheriff Noble lead the way in his blue-and-white cruiser with the rental Galaxie right behind. Steve was at the wheel, with Mike beside a handcuffed Rutter in the back seat. Two more cruisers, with Carson and Carruthers, brought up the rear.

"Let's just hope all hell doesn't break lose while we're gone," Noble had said, only half-joking, before they left the station. "The entire Kearney police force is gonna be out of town for about eight to ten hours. God help us all."

Steve started the Galaxie and was just about to shift it into Drive when he caught his breath in alarm.

"What?" Mike asked from the back seat, knowing full well his partner was not easily startled.

"The gas gauge. It's only showing a quarter tank."

"Are you sure?"

Steve nodded as he tapped his finger against the plastic cover, hoping the needle was just stuck.

"Do you remember seeing it this morning when you drove us here?"

The younger man shook his head. "I don't remember, but maybe I didn't look because I knew we filled it up before we got to the motel last night and I didn't think to check."

"Well, this doesn't make any sense…" Mike began quietly then noticed a slight smile on Rutter's lips as he stared straight ahead through the front windshield. "What do you know about this?" Mike demanded, and Steve looked into the rearview mirror, startled by his partner's change of tone.

When Rutter didn't move or change expression, Mike said to Steve, "Stay here, I'm gonna talk to Eli." He got out of the Galaxie and approached the driver's side door of the sheriff's sedan.

Steve stared at Rutter in the rearview mirror but the felon's slightly self-satisfied expression never wavered. The San Francisco cop's uneasiness ratcheted up a notch, and he swallowed down the bile that had crept up the back of his throat.

Mike got back into the car. "Eli says we'll stop at the gas station on the edge of town and fill up." He stared at Rutter's unchanging profile as he settled once more into the back seat. He couldn't shake the feeling that their reluctant prisoner knew what had happened to their full tank of gas, and that this was an ominous beginning to a potentially challenging odyssey home.

Noble pulled out onto the road, the other three cars following. It took less than ten minutes to wind their way through town and as they passed the Town Limit road sign, turned into the Marathon Gas Station. Steve had pulled the Galaxie up to a pump before he noticed the hand-written cardboard sign taped to the front of the pump: NO GAS. He looked at the other pump; it had a similar sign. He glanced at Mike in the rearview mirror; he had seen the notices as well.

An old man in a battered John Deere baseball cap and greasy overalls stepped out of the dirty, once-white wooden garage office and shuffled towards the cars. "Sorry, fellas, we're outa gas."

Steve and Noble got out of their cars simultaneously. "What do you mean you've got no gas, Cyrus?" Noble demanded as he crossed towards the old man.

Flashing a toothless grin, Cyrus shook his head, putting his hands on his hips. "We dun run outa gas first thing this mornin'. Put a call in and waitin' fer the truck to come fill us up but till then, we ain't got no gas."

Noble sighed in frustration and looked at Steve, shaking his head in apology. "Sorry, Steve, this isn't unusual here. It kinda happens a lot. I just didn't think it would happen today." He turned back to the old man. "What about Alister?"

"Nope. I called over there – he's out too."

"Of course he is," Noble said under his breath, then looked at Steve again. "That's the station on the other side of town – and the only other one around here."

Frustrated, Steve sighed heavily. "Where's the nearest station between here and the Interstate?"

"There isn't one," Noble said almost apologetically. "Well, that's not quite true, there's a little Mom-and-Pop pump that services the local farmers about 20 miles this side of the Interstate, but they don't keep regular hours. It's just a pump at a feed store. We might be able to rouse 'em when we get there if you think we need to get enough gas to get us to the Interstate, but that's a long shot."

"There're no private pumps around here?"

"Just the ones the 'shiners have, and I don't want to go anywhere near those ones, if you catch my drift." Noble was trying his best not to sound defeatist and Steve appreciated his effort. "Listen, uh, we're rationing gas around here too, but not quite like you guys are with that odd-even thing going on. But I've been thinkin' – you losing gas like that, it could just be someone siphoning off gas to fill their own tank. Happens around here all the time. Might be nothing really sinister about it, if you know what I mean?"

Steve took a deep breath, irritated and angry. "Yeah, maybe you're right, but it sure doesn't help us out right now though, does it?"

The sheriff looked up. The clouds were accumulating again; the sunshine from the morning was long gone and storm clouds were on the horizon above the hills. He sighed in frustration.

"Well, we better get going. The sooner we get to the Interstate, the sooner I'll like it. Keep an eye on that gauge, Steve, and if it gets too low for your liking, well, maybe we can siphon some out of one of our cars to tide you over."

"You have a siphoning kit in your car?" the younger cop asked with a chuckle.

Noble grinned. "Are you kiddin'? Everybody around here does."

Nodding, his brow furrowed with a worry he couldn't put his finger on, Steve got back into the Galaxie. Mike, unable to overhear the conversation, knew from his partner's expression that all was not right but he didn't want to go into any detail in front of Rutter. Something in the back of Mike's mind was telling him that all this was not one big coincidence, and his cop's sixth sense was on full alert.

Their eyes met in the rearview mirror once more, and they both knew what the other was thinking.

# # # # #

They were making good progress. Steve kept glancing at the gas gauge, probably more than was necessary and, though it was going down, he felt a little more optimistic that they were going to make the Interstate before they ran into trouble. The cloud cover made everything darker than usual, and with the sun going down, he had turned on the headlights earlier than normal.

The trip had been made in silence; Rutter had continued to stare through the front windshield, his slightly knowing smile beginning to grate on Mike's nerves as the miles passed.

Without the illumination of the full moon that was blocked by the heavy clouds, and with no roadside lights, the blackness that seemed to descend upon them quickly was particularly oppressive to the city cops. They were both more than anxious to get to the Interstate, but also knew that it would be another hour or so till that would happen.

Suddenly, the sheriff's car braked and pulled onto the shoulder. Steve followed suit.

Noble got out quickly and motioned for Steve to join him; he obviously didn't want to talk within earshot of Rutter. Steve glanced into the backseat and met Mike's concerned stare. The senior partner nodded and Steve got out quickly and jogged to the sheriff's cruiser, where Noble had already been joined by Carruthers and Carter.

Noble had his hands on his hips and was shuffling restlessly. He looked up as Steve approached, looking worried and frustrated. "Steve, I hate to do this, but we have to leave you guys."

"What?"

"We just got a call. All hell _is_ breaking loose back in Kearney. From what I can gather, two of Caudill's boys just got arrested by the KSP for selling heroin, and the Caudill's are on the rampage. They've accused the Rutters of setting them up and a few of Caudill's boys are heading to the Rutters to settle the score. We've gotta get back."

"I thought you said you kept a hands-off approach when it was family on family?" Steve demanded, his nerves beginning to fray.

"Yeah, well, sayin' it and doin' it are two different things. I'm the sheriff, and I gotta do what a sheriff is supposed to do." He paused, his anger and exasperation very obvious. "I'm sorry, Steve, but my first priority is to the people of Kearney."

Steve nodded his head quickly, fidgeting, trying to think through any other options. "No, no, I understand, Eli, I do. It's just, ah, well, you know, Mike and I don't know this place, these aren't our people…"

"I hear ya," Noble interjected softly with an angry sigh of his own. He glanced towards the Galaxie. "If that damn thing just had a police radio, I'd feel a lot better. At least then we could keep in touch with you through the KSP. Look, I'll get on the horn to them and see if they can start down the road here and meet you guys before you get to the 75. That's the least we can do for leaving you in the lurch here."

Steve nodded, pleased at the idea.

"And if it turns out to be nothin' more than a tempest in a teapot back home, God willin', well, I'll send one of the boys back this way lickety split to try to catch up with you before you hit the Interstate. How does that sound?"

"That sounds good," Steve nodded, glancing back anxiously at the dark sedan with his partner and their prisoner in the back seat. "Listen, I want to get going, get out of here. I think we're good in the gas department, I still have around an eighth of a tank, if I can trust the gauge, and you said it's just about another twenty to the 75?"

Noble nodded.

"Sheriff," Steve held out his hand and Nobel shook it, "thanks for everything, from both of us. And good luck back home." Steve shook the two deputies hands as well and jogged back to the car. He got behind the wheel and shifted into gear, pulling out from behind the sheriff's car and starting down the dark two-lane blacktop.

"What's going on?" Mike asked from the back seat, staring into the rearview mirror.

Steve, wanting to inform his partner of everything but not wanting to divulge too much to Rutter, just shook his head. "Eli and his men have to get back to Kearney. Seems there's some trouble back there. We're on our own." His eyes burned into the mirror for several seconds, and he watched his partner freeze, eyes wide, then nod ever so slightly. "But it's only about twenty miles or so to the Interstate. We're gonna make it." He hoped he sounded more optimistic than he felt.

Mike looked sideways at Rutter as he settled back in the seat. The smaller man continued to stare forward, the irritating half-smile still pasted on his thin lips. Mike slowly moved his right hand down to his side, and unsnapped the holster on his belt.


	5. Chapter 5

It was hard to make good time on the uneven asphalt, the darkness so dense that even with the brights on, he could barely see twenty yards in front of the car. They were making progress but it was slow. And with the lack of road signs, it was impossible to guess how close they were to the Interstate.

It had been quiet in the car since they had parted company with the Kearney police officers. Steve was concentrating on the driving, Mike dividing his focus between his partner and the seemingly fixated man on the seat beside him. He couldn't shake the nagging feeling that Rutter was anticipating some kind of divine intervention.

Mike saw his partner's head recoil and heard the sharp inhale, and he looked through the windshield. He could see that the trees lining the left side of the road up ahead were now illuminated; another vehicle was heading towards them on the narrow road. This was the first traffic they were encountering since they'd been left on their own.

Steve tightened his grip on the wheel; for some reason, he felt uneasy and his heart begin to pound. He glanced into the mirror and caught Mike staring at him, and he knew the older man was feeling the same way. He snapped off the brights and reduced the pressure on the accelerator, and all three could feel the Galaxie slow slightly. He steered the sedan as close to the right edge of the blacktop as he could to allow what he finally recognized as a large old-fashioned pick-up truck to pass without a problem.

As the other vehicle got closer, Steve could see it slowing down as well. The brights were on and they were blinding. In the backseat, Rutter leaned forward slightly; his eyes widened and his smile got a little bigger. Mike, who had been watching him closely, began to glance quickly between Rutter and the truck coming towards them.

Suddenly the pick-up swung across the white line and stopped, straddling both lanes about ten yards in front of them. Steve slammed on the brakes and, although they weren't going very fast, all three were jolted forward. Mike reached out instinctively to prevent Rutter from hitting the back of the front seat.

The headlights from the pick-up, higher than those on the Galaxie, completely illuminated the interior of the dark green sedan. Steve sat perfectly still, trying to discern any kind of movement in the glaring light. Surreptitiously, he pressed the switch to roll the side window down, hoping the sound would be masked by the two running engines, straining to hear something, anything that would let him know what was happening. Mike was staring at Rutter's profile, trying to figure out just what was going on.

Through the open window, all three could hear the sound of feet hitting the blacktop, people jumping out of the truck bed. In the backseat, Rutter's grin got wider, and Mike's right hand went to the grip of his .38. His left hand snaked up behind the fugitive's back and he grabbed the smaller man's tee-shirt, twisting it tightly in a warning to Rutter to keep his mouth shut.

Steve swallowed heavily; his right hand had slid across his stomach, taken his revolver from the holster on his left hip and laid it on the front seat beside him, thumbing the safety off. The sedan was still in Drive.

Suddenly someone stepped in front of the pick-up and a silhouette was briefly outlined. Rutter caught his breath and his smile disappeared, replaced by wide-eyed terror.

Mike glanced quickly from Rutter through the windshield and back. "Steve, hit it!" he yelled at the top of his lungs as he grabbed Rutter and pushed him down behind the front seat. Almost simultaneously, the windshield exploded as bullets slammed into the Galaxie, making thunk-thunk-thunk sounds as they penetrated the seats, headrests and back window.

Steve had thrown himself down on the front seat the instant Mike yelled, turning the steering wheel sharply to the left and slamming his foot down on the gas. The large sedan shot forward at a forty-five degree angle and Steve raised his head enough to steer around the pickup, hoping there was sufficient room to get the sedan past the truck and keep it on the road and out of the shallow ditch.

He heard a loud thump as the right front fender connected with something that wasn't metal and there was an ungodly scream of pain. The deafening screech of metal on metal quickly followed and from the corner of his eye he could see the pick-up rock as the two vehicles collided.

Sitting up even more, he got both hands on the wheel and corrected the skidding Galaxie, the back tires spinning as he got it straightened out. The tires caught the pavement and shot forward. As the sedan peeled off down the blacktop, he heard several more rounds fired into the back. Hoping none of them had hit anything vital enough to bring the car to a halt, and knowing the tires were still inflated, he tore down the road at full speed, using his right hand in an almost futile attempt to remove the pieces of the shattered windshield in front of him.

"Are you okay back there?!" he shouted towards the backseat and relaxed slightly when he saw Mike's fedora in the rearview.

With his left hand still on the back of Rutter's tee-shirt, Mike had pulled the smaller man back up into a sitting position and quickly checked him over. "We're fine back here!" he yelled, fighting the wind blasting through the now missing windshield. "You?!"

"I'm okay!"

Mike slammed Rutter back against the seat. "All right, so who was that?! And don't tell me you don't know 'cause I know you do!"

The anger in the detective's eyes and voice, and the strength of this grip on Rutter's tee-shirt, jarred the fugitive out of his silence. He nodded rapidly, breathing heavily and fast. "Yeah, yeah, I know them – it's the Scobies!"

"The Scobies?!" Mike sounded surprised. "I thought it was the Caudills your family was feuding with?!"

The car slid around a tight curve and they were thrown to the left. Mike, unable to stop himself, slammed into Rutter and gasped. Steve, trying to keep his eyes on the road, glanced quickly into the back seat. "You okay back there?!"

Righting himself, Mike snapped back, "I said we're fine!" He turned back to Rutter, fire in his eyes. "So what's going on with the Scobies, _Donald_?!" he hissed, using the abbreviated Christian name deliberately and tightening his grip on the tee-shirt again, then watched as the smaller man cringed, all the defiance now gone.

"They're, ah, they're after me. They think I sold some of their kids some bad heroin last year, one of the boys died. It wasn't me, I swear, but they think it was and nothin' I say or anyone says for that matter'll change their minds. They swore they were gonna kill me!"

"Great," Steve yelled from the front seat, "just what we need!" He expertly steered the sedan around another tight corner. He kept glancing into the rearview mirror but so far he had seen no sign of the pick-up, or any vehicle, behind them, and luckily nothing had come towards them either.

Realizing Rutter was now probably on their side, Mike loosened his hold on the tee-shirt. "How far do you think it is to the Interstate?"

Rutter shook his head, glancing around, trying to get his bearings. "Ah, I don't know, another few miles at least."

"Did you hear that, Steve?!"

"Yep!"

"How do you think the gas is holding up?!"

"I think we're gonna be okay -!"

There was a loud bang and the sedan suddenly slewed across the road. Steve fought the wheel but the Galaxie had been going too fast and with a blown tire, he had no control. He slammed on the brakes as the large Ford slid into a sideways skid towards the ditch on the far side of the road. The steering wheel shot out of his hands. The car fishtailed, the trunk and back wheels slipping into the ditch first, and as the car continued to slide onto the gravel shoulder, its left side rocketed up about thirty degrees, the tires continuing to spin as they left the ground, then slammed back onto the dirt and bounced to a halt.

The engine had stalled and suddenly everything was eerily silent. Steve was the first to move. He was still sitting behind the wheel, his hands at his sides, his heart pounding, breathing rapidly and noisily through his open mouth. As if in a trance, he reached for the door handle and gasped in surprise when the door groaned open and the dome light snapped on. He turned unsteadily on the seat and put both feet on the ground before pushing himself up.

Safely outside the car, he seemed to suddenly remember he wasn't alone. "Mike?!" he yelled as he turned towards the back seat, reaching for the handle and pulling the heavy back door open.

On top of Rutter, Mike was pushing himself up from the gap between the two rows of seats and he looked up at Steve in stunned silence. Sitting back, he grabbed Rutter by the back of his tee-shirt again and pulled the smaller man up then towards the door.

"You're okay?" Steve asked his partner worriedly, as Rutter crawled out from the backseat and stood, wobbly.

Mike nodded as he slid across the seat, reaching out with his left hand to pull himself out of the car. "You?"

"Yeah, yeah," Steve said shakily, realizing he was trembling as he put a hand on Mike's arm as if to reassure himself that they were both all right. He looked around quickly, up and down the deserted road and then at the dense forest on either side. "We've gotta get outa here," he said quietly.

Mike nodded. "I know. But we can't stay on the road, they'll find us for sure."

"So, what? We go through the woods?"

Mike looked at him with a tilted head and Steve could almost make out the raised eyebrows in the inky blackness. "You have a better idea?"

Steve turned to Rutter. "You know the terrain around here. You're in more danger than we are right now. What do you think?"

The small man's eyes flicked briefly from one cop to the other; they could both see the terror he wasn't even trying to hide. "Yeah, yeah, it's our only chance. But you gotta take these cuffs off and you gotta keep up. The Scobies know these woods better'n I do and they'll be on us before we know it."

Steve had already fished his handcuff key out of his pocket and he undid the cuffs while Rutter held his hands out. The smaller man rubbed his wrists as Steve clipped the cuffs on the back of his belt. "Wait a second," Steve ordered and he climbed back into the car and laid across the front seat. He dropped his left hand down into the well and felt around until he found his gun. Then he opened the glove box and rooted in there. Turning off the headlights as he got back out, he slammed the door, holstered the .38 then held up a small black flashlight. "I thought they might have one," he said triumphantly, and Mike nodded his approval.

Turning towards the woods, Rutter hesitated for a split second then started to move. "Through here," he said and pushed some branches back.

With a quick glance to each other, Steve followed Rutter into the bush, Mike on his heels.


	6. Chapter 6

Like a man possessed, Rutter crashed through the brush and he was immediately several yards ahead of the two San Francisco detectives. They quickly lost track of time but they had been moving through the heavy undergrowth at a furious clip for a long while before Steve, with a concerned glance back at Mike, sprinted ahead, managing to get close enough to the frenzied fugitive to seize the tail of his tee-shirt and drag him to a halt.

Rutter turned to him, furious. "Shit, man, will you assholes quit grabbin' my shirt!"

Panting, Steve let go and raised both hands placatingly. "All right! But you have got to slow down." Mike caught up to them and Steve, who could barely make out who was who in the oppressive blackness of the dense forest, threw him a concerned look before facing Rutter again. "We don't know these woods like you do, you're making too much goddamn noise and we're the ones with the guns, remember?!" he hissed as loudly as he dared.

He could hear Mike's heavy breathing over his shoulder. He knew his partner was in good shape and good health, but if he, almost thirty years younger, was having a hard time, he could only imagine what Mike was going through. "You okay?" he asked, and in the dark he could see the quick and forceful nod.

Rutter looked at Mike and held his gaze for a long second. Then he dropped his eyes and nodded. "Okay, okay, but we gotta keep movin'. Those Scobies, they're scary good in the bush."

He turned and started off again, Steve on his heels and Mike bringing up the rear. Steve tapped Rutter's shoulder, to get his attention again. "Do you know where you're going?"

Rutter actually smiled for the first time; Steve could see a glimmer of light reflected off his extraordinarily white teeth. "Not a clue. I'm jus' gettin' us as far away from that car as I can. Then, in the mornin', when we can finally see somethin', I'll know how to get us outa here."

Steve shrugged and nodded. That sounded logical. "We're, ah, we're on Caudill land right now, aren't we?" he asked carefully, not sure what kind of response he was expecting.

With a mirthless snort, Rutter nodded. "Yep, we sure are. So you two better stick close to me, 'cause you're gonna have to become my bodyguards if we run across any of 'em, 'cause they gonna want to skin me alive."

Steve dropped back a step, wanting to get a little further into the woods, and into the night, before pressing the little felon any further about the goings on in the hills of southeastern Kentucky.

Steve glanced over his shoulder. "You sure you're okay?" he asked Mike quietly.

He heard Mike's soft chuckle, knowing the older man was grateful for the concern. "Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks for getting him to slow down though."

Steve chuckled as well. "You're welcome. So, ah, you gonna kick Rudy's ass when we finally get out of here and get back home?"

Mike's laugh got a bit louder. "Tell you what, I'll hold him and you can kick him."

The forest seemed to be getting thicker, and their progress slowed even more. They were pretty sure they'd been moving non-stop for over an hour when they heard the first pockety-pockety sounds from the high canopy and realized it had started to rain. The dense brush and thick stands of trees offered some protection, but as they continued deeper into the bush, the constant rain began to soak through their clothes, making everything just that much more miserable.

Mike had his hat, at least, that provided some protection and both he and Steve had their jackets, but Rutter's thin tee-shirt was soon soaked through and the small man had begun to shiver. Catching up, Steve took off his jacket and offered it to him. For a brief moment, Rutter looked almost touched by the gesture, then he shook it off. "You're gonna need that more'n me, City Boy," he spat derisively, but Steve wasn't sure there was much venom behind the taunt.

They trudged on through the dense brush in the cold rain. Steve kept glancing over his shoulder; Mike was beginning to struggle and his young partner caught up to Rutter and once again pulled him to a stop. "We need to take a break," he said urgently. "Mike needs to rest for a bit."

Rutter stopped, turned and eyed him, his expression unreadable. After staring back for a couple of beats, Steve took the look to mean agreement and he turned to Mike, who was just catching up to them in the dark. Steve could hear the older man's heavy breathing.

"We're gonna take a break, Mike. Rutter thinks we're far enough ahead that we can afford to," he lied, then cringed slightly when Rutter shot him a dirty look.

"If you're gonna talk about me, call me by my Christian names, will ya?" he whined almost petulantly. "It's Donny Lee."

At first taken aback, Steve started to smile. "All right, Donny Lee, you got it," he said amiably with a genial nod as he turned back to his exhausted partner. "Mike, grab a seat for a couple of minutes. There's a log over there." He pointed to a fallen tree a few yards away and Mike crossed wearily. The fact that the older man put up no resistance bothered him more than he cared to admit and, after he watched Mike sit slowly, he pulled Rutter a little further away.

"Listen, ah," he began quietly so Mike wouldn't hear, "I'm not sure if he can keep up this pace. Can we slow it down some more or is there somewhere we can, I don't know, bivouac for the night?"

Rutter shook his head vigorously. "I wish there was, I really do, but you don' know the Scobies. They got dogs. If I'm right about this, I think they're gonna go get their dogs an' when they find that car, they'll be after us like stink on a skunk."

Frustrated, and worried, Steve hung his head, his hands on his hips. Rutter studied his downturned face then asked quietly, "You don' know, do ya?"

Steve's head snapped up. "What?" he asked menacingly, in no mood to play games with this joker.

Rutter stared into Steve's eyes then nodded slightly towards Mike. "Your partner. He was hit."

The blood drained from Steve's face and everything spun. "What?" This time the word was breathless, as if he didn't believe what he had just heard.

Rutter's stare continued but his voice was now slightly tinged with empathy. "Haven't ya noticed he hasn't been usin' his right arm? He took one through the shoulder."

Suddenly galvanized, Steve spun on his heel and crossed quickly to where Mike was sitting, with his head lowered, on the large tree trunk. Steve fished the flashlight out of his jacket pocket and turned it on, pointing it at the ground. Wordlessly, he put a hand on Mike's left shoulder and when the older man looked up, in the reflected light Steve could see the pain creasing his strained features.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Still breathing heavily but more from pain than exhaustion, Mike shook his head. "I didn't want to slow us down."

"Damn it, Michael." Steve raised the flashlight, trying to control his growing anxiety. When the narrow beam of light illuminated the small tear in the material of the right shoulder of the dark grey suit coat, he tried to swallow the angry gasp that escaped his lips. "Let's have a look at that," he said in as normal a voice as he could muster. He felt Rutter move in closer behind him and he half-turned to the younger man. "Here." He handed him the flashlight.

Rutter shone the beam on Mike's shoulder as Steve slipped the wet suit coat off, revealing a large bloodstain on the light blue knitted vest and blue-and-white striped shirt. Mike's tie was already loose and the collar button undone. Steve pulled the tie off and stuffed it in Mike's jacket pocket then undid more buttons on the vest and shirt, pulling them open. The white undershirt beneath was soaked a deep red. Steve glanced at Mike, who was looking away with his eyes closed. "I'm going to have to rip your tee-shirt," he said gently.

Mike chuckled, keeping his eyes closed. "That's the least of my worries."

With a warm smile, Steve pulled the blood-drenched tee away from the skin, put a finger through the bullet hole and tore the cotton material, exposing the wound in Mike's shoulder. It was a small circle, still oozing blood, just under the collarbone. Mike caught his breath. "It's a through-and-through," he mumbled, "but I don't think it hit anything important, like my lung. It might have broken my collarbone; I can't tell for sure. Everything around there hurts like hell."

Rutter had taken a sideways step, moving the flashlight beam with him, and glanced at Mike's back. He caught Steve's eye and nodded. Steve reached into his pocket and took out the handkerchief that the older man had insisted he carry; now he was more than glad that Mike had been so bull headed about it. Very gently, he placed the white linen over the wound. "Here, put your hand on that," he instructed and Mike raised his left hand.

Steve moved to where Rutter had been standing. "I want to get a look at your back. I'll need to get your vest and shirt looser. It's gonna hurt. Brace yourself." Mike nodded. After pulling the vest, shirt and torn t-shirt away from Mike's shoulder, he was grateful to find that the exit wound was only marginally larger than the entrance, indicating the use of a full metal jacket military type bullet. "Your hanky in your right pocket?"

Mike nodded, his eyes still closed, and began to get up.

"No no no," Steve said quickly, "stay down, I'll get it." He slid his hand into Mike's pocket then once more gently placed the clean fabric over the open wound. Mike gasped slightly and straightened up, pulling away from the touch. "Sorry," Steve apologized, keeping his hand on the hanky. He pulled the shirt and vest back up, hoping they would keep the linen anchored in place over the wound. He heard Mike moan slightly.

Steve and Rutter exchanged concerned glances. Rutter eyebrows rose in a 'What are you going to do now?' look; Steve just shook his head with a facial shrug, suddenly overwhelmed. Rutter leaned towards him and whispered in his ear. "He's not gonna to be able to keep up. The Scobies'll be on us before we know it an' then it's game over for all of us."

Steve had pulled his head back to retort when Mike said quietly, "Leave me here."

Both younger men turned, moving so they we once more in front of him.

Mike opened his eyes and looked up, meeting Steve's stare evenly. "He's right. I won't be able to keep up." He nodded towards Rutter. "He's our priority, Steve. He's why we're in this situation. And it's up to us to get him out of it."

"But Mike –"

"I'll be okay. I can burrow in somewhere and hide. Even if they do find me, there's no reason to kill me, they're after him, right?" He gestured at Rutter with his chin, smiling slightly to take the sting out of his words.

"Mike, I don't think –"

"I can survive the night out here, that's not in question. I'm not hurt that bad, just bad enough that I can't go crashing through the bush all night. Right?" The blue eyes bored into his partner's green ones. "Right?"

Steve nodded reluctantly. "Right." The word was barely audible.

Mike pulled his stare away from his partner and looked at Rutter. "Donny Lee, you know this forest better than we do. Find me someplace where I can dig myself in and hide from whoever might come looking for us tonight."

Rutter had begun to nod as Mike spoke and had taken a step away when he turned back. "That's unless they have –"

"They have dogs, I know," Mike finished with a nod and a small grin. Rutter's initial look of annoyance turned quickly into a grin of his own and he strode off, taking the flashlight.

"I don't like this, Mike," Steve said quickly when Rutter had moved away. "I don't think we should split up."

"We don't have a choice. I'm like chum in the water, I'll attract all the sharks." Mike chuckled at his own joke but he couldn't get a rise out of his partner. "Steve, I'll be all right."

"You don't know that!" Steve hissed, his anger starting to get the better of him.

Mike looked at him sternly, and they both froze. "I'll make it an order if I have to, Inspector. Do I have to?"

Their eyes remained locked for several long seconds, then Steve blinked and dropped his head. "No, sir, Lieutenant, sir," he spat sarcastically, closing his eyes.

Mike knew the vehemence was borne of concern and his features softened. Swallowing heavily, he said quietly, "I want you to take my piece."

"No!" Steve snapped, taking a step back. "You might need it."

"For what?! To try to shoot someone who's gonna have me outmanned and outgunned!" Mike paused and regrouped, continuing quietly, "You and Rutter might need more firepower if you get cornered or something, God forbid. Take it."

Reluctantly, Steve slipped the .38 out of Mike's holster and put it in his jacket pocket.

Rutter approached them. "I found a spot."

Putting the wet suit coat gently over Mike's shoulders, Steve helped the older man to his feet and they followed Rutter to a large tree that had obviously fallen a long time ago. Rutter led them around to the side away from the 'path' they were taking through the bush; he played the flashlight beam over a hollow under the massive dead trunk. He had cleared out an area large enough for Mike to lie down in and heaped a large pile of dead leaves at one end for him to lean against.

Shaking off the offer of assistance, Mike got down on his left hand and knees, crawled into the hole and carefully laid back against the pile of leaves. He looked up at Rutter and a warm smile lit his face. "Hey, this is pretty comfortable," he said with a dry chuckle. Rutter grinned. Mike pulled his coat tighter and put his left hand once more on his right shoulder.

Rutter handed Steve the flashlight and moved away slightly as Steve knelt beside his partner. He didn't know what to say. Mike smiled at him. "Don't forget where I am, all right?"

Steve chuckled in spite of himself. "I promise." He looked down and swallowed heavily. "Look, you might want to use your tie as a sling. It'll help take some of the weight off your shoulder."

Mike nodded, grateful for the continuing concern. "Yeah, I'll do that." He stared at the top of his young partner's head.

With a deep breath, Steve raised his head and looked into Mike's eyes, his own beginning to tear up. The older man's bottom lip began to tremble and he cleared his throat self-consciously. Steve reached out and put his hand on the side of Mike's face. "I'll, ah, I'll be back as soon as I can," he said shakily.

Mike grinned, his eyes brimming. He nodded. "I know you will."


	7. Chapter 7

Steve's head was turned; he kept looking over his shoulder, almost unable to tear his eyes away from the rapidly disappearing tree trunk under which his partner now lay. Mike had been grinning warmly as he had walked away, and long after it had become too dark and too far away for Steve to see anything, that smile was burned into his mind.

Trying to blink away the tears that continued to blur his vision, breathing heavily through his open mouth, he silently followed Rutter deeper into the bush. The native Kentuckian had increased his pace; they needed to make up for the lost time.

Both men were on full alert, straining to hear anything, beyond their own footfalls, that would warn them of any unwelcome presence. So far they had heard nothing, but they both knew it was only a matter of time.

Steve wasn't sure how long they had been moving across the rain-slickened forest floor when Rutter slowed slightly and the San Francisco cop found himself on the younger man's heels. Rutter glanced back. "How long have you two been partners?" he asked quietly.

Steve caught his breath; it was not a question he'd been expecting from his reluctant confederate. "Um, ah, just over four years," he answered softly.

The pair walked in silence for several long seconds, then Rutter glanced at Steve quickly again. "He'll be okay; you'll get him back," he said firmly and increased his pace, widening the distance between them.

# # # # #

Mike tugged at the lapels of his suit coat, trying to get them closer together. He pulled the tie out of his pocket and, using his left hand and his teeth, managed to tie the ends together then loop it over his head. Grimacing, he used his left hand to lift his right and slide it into the makeshift sling.

Waiting several seconds for the pain to subside, he shifted so he was lying mostly on his left side, trying to keep the wound in his back from making contact with the pile of leaves he was lying against. Finally getting relatively comfortable, he turned the collar of his suit coat up, laid his head against it and put his now sopping wet fedora over his face.

He closed his eyes. His breaths began to get deeper and longer; his chest started to heave. He had no idea where he was, he wasn't really sure how seriously he was hurt, and he knew that some very bad people were trying very hard to find him. He was wet, he was cold, he was in pain, he was alone… and he was afraid – not just for himself, but for his partner. Mostly for his partner.

Warm tears started to slide down his cheeks as he began to pray.

# # # # #

Steve was trying to shake the rainwater out of his hair when Rutter suddenly stopped and froze, cocking his head. Steve slid to a halt. "What –?"

Rutter cut him off with a quick, angry gesture. Then they both heard it, an almost inaudible report: the distant but very recognizable sound of gunfire. The two men looked at each other.

"Which way?" Steve whispered, hoping that Rutter's superior skill in the bush would help him distinguish the direction the sound was coming from.

Rutter, his brow furrowed anxiously, just shook his head, shrugging.

"How far?"

Another shrug, another shake of the head. Steve watched as Rutter seemed to wage an inner war, trying to decide which way they should continue. Their eyes met briefly. "Mike…" Steve whispered, the helplessness so evident in his voice.

Rutter quickly shook his head. "No, I don' think it was from there," he whispered back, and Steve grabbed his arm. They were standing almost nose-to-nose in the dark. Rutter shook his head again. "No, it wasn't from there," he said with a certainty that made Steve nod and relax. He squeezed Rutter's arm before letting it go.

The younger man turned away, hesitated for a split second, then pointed straight ahead. "We gotta keep goin'," he said urgently, heading off again. With a deep breath, Steve followed. In the distance they heard two more shots.

# # # # #

They had walked for another couple of hours, and their pace had slowed considerably. The rain had finally stopped; a damp mist began to form in the swales as the clouds dissipated. The murky sky was beginning to change colour as the first indications of the approaching dawn appeared in the east.

They were sitting under trees, dirty, exhausted, dehydrated and covered with scrapes and cuts from the unforgiving bushes and branches they'd had to fight through for so many long and difficult hours. Steve had just leaned his head back against the rough bark of a pignut hickory when they heard it – the unmistakable baying of bloodhounds. Both men shot to their feet; the eerie howling made their blood run cold and they looked at each other with sudden unsuppressed terror.

"Run!" Rutter hissed loudly as he took off into the bush once more in the opposite direction of the almost paralyzing sound. Steve shot after him. They no longer cared about keeping as quiet as possible; that option was one they no longer needed to consider. Now it was a race for their lives.

The pre-dawn light was just enough to allow them to run at a pace that had would have been suicidal before. The more sure-footed Rutter started to open up a wider lead ahead of the city detective. Steve knew he would soon be outrun and Rutter would no longer be, figuratively speaking at least, his prisoner. A phrase he had heard mere hours earlier returned and, despite the seriousness of his present situation, he couldn't resist a slight smile. _"That's the least of my worries."_

The pounding of the heavy metal object in his jacket pocket brought him quickly back to reality. "Donny Lee," he whispered loudly, and he saw the younger man slow slightly, turning his head to let the cop know he had been heard. "Slow down, man, I want to give you something."

Rutter pulled up, panting, and turned quickly. Steve slid to a stop before him and reached into his pocket. He pulled out Mike's .38. "You might need this."

Rutter froze, his eyes on the revolver, but he didn't move. Steve saw him swallow heavily and blink rapidly, as if not believing what he was seeing. He looked up and met Steve's eyes, his expression wary.

Steve nodded quickly and pushed the .38 into the younger man's chest, forcing him to grab it. "Take it, you're gonna need it, especially if we get split up."

The quick intake of breath was the only sign Steve needed to know that Rutter understood exactly what he had said. Wordlessly, the young Kentuckian, who had run from the SFPD and was now literally on the run for his life in his own 'backyard', wrapped both hands around the revolver, turned and broke into a run once more.

Steve struggled valiantly to keep up, but it was getting harder and harder. He already had blood running down the right side of his face from a viciously sharp branch that had missed his eye but managed to dig a chunk out of his eyebrow.

The baying of the bloodhounds seemed to be getting closer, and a sense of inevitable foreboding began to sink in. He didn't know how much further he could run, how much more of the relentless pounding his body could withstand.

They were cresting a slight hill when he was thrown off his feet, spun viciously and slammed into a small tree, left shoulder first. He lay unmoving for several long seconds, trying to figure out what had happened, too stunned to move.

Rutter, who had heard the cop's cry of pain, turned in time to see Steve hit the tree. He knew immediately what was going on. Crouching, he scrambled back and grabbed Steve's right arm as he began to stand. "You've been hit," Rutter hissed, "look." He held Steve's arm tightly until his words sank in and he saw the cop turn his head slowly to look at his own upper arm. "It went right through but you're gonna bleed like a stuck pig." He pulled Steve to his feet. "We can't stay here, we're sittin' ducks. We gotta at least give 'em a movin' target."

Pushing Steve ahead of him, crouching and, with a quick backward glance, Rutter shepherded his now wounded ally through the suddenly sparse woods. The scattered new growth trees offered far less protection and concealment than the denser woodland they had spent most of the night traversing.

They both felt the air compress as another high velocity round sailed harmlessly past, but they both also realized that their luck was rapidly running out. It was only a matter of time, maybe just seconds, until they would be cut down.

They ran as fast as their exhausted legs could carry them, Rutter passing the nearly spent cop and retaking the lead. They could hear the dogs closing in behind them and another round slammed into a tree beside Rutter as he careened past it. He ducked instinctively, almost losing his balance but managing somehow to stay on his feet.

And then his luck ran out. As Steve watched, Rutter suddenly pitched forward, his back seeming to explode as he slammed face first onto the undergrowth, arms outspread, his sweat and rain soaked tee-shirt turning a frightening deep red.

"No!" Steve cried out as he stumbled forward, trying to get to the fallen man, ignoring the searing pain in his arm. He was reaching for Rutter when his left calf muscle was blown apart, a round tearing through his leg and into the ground.

Screaming, he fell onto his back, unable to move, staring up at the sparse canopy, at a sky turning pink with the promise of a beautiful day. He couldn't move, his chest heaving wildly as he struggled to breathe, overwhelmed by the crippling pain that dangled dark spots before his eyes. He could hear the cries of the dogs, their strident frustration at not being allowed in for the kill. He heard heavy footsteps getting closer, and a low sadistic cackle.

Opening his eyes a slit, he willed himself not to react when a tall, thickset, black bearded man in dirty denim overalls and jacket, and carrying a military style rifle with a scope, stepped into his field of vision. _'I wonder which Scobie this is?'_ he thought idly, almost laughing at the incongruousness of the question.

The unknown Scobie glanced to his left, and Steve could only assume he was looking at Rutter, or what was left of him. He closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment of unexpected grief, then let them slide slightly open again.

"I knows youse still alive, ya little piss-ant, thinkin' ya kin get ya asses outa here 'fore we dun dealt wit' that l'il bag a shit." He moved the barrel of the rifle vaguely in Rutter's direction. "Ya took out one a our own too, ya bastard. What, ya think we don' live by 'eye fer an eye' here? When yew city boys gonna learn?" He turned his head slightly. "Whata ya wan' me to do wit' him, Pa?!" he called over his shoulder.

"Kill 'im," a cold distant voice yelled back, and the dogs started to howl again. 'Pa' must be the one controlling the hounds, Steve thought sluggishly, his pain-addled brain having trouble focusing.

"Yee haw!" the younger Scobie roared with delight, and his almost toothless face broke into a lop-sided grin as he brought the rifle up to his shoulder and pointed the barrel at the helpless cop.

"Mike…" Steve breathed wistfully as he closed his eyes and the loud report echoed throughout the quiet forest.


	8. Chapter 8

**I want to thank everyone who is reading and everyone who is reviewing this story. Needless to say, I am very pleased and proud of the feedback and hope that I can continue to surprise and entertain you. Sorry I haven't been able to send individual replies - too busy writing! Many thanks again!**

The roar continued to ring in his ears as he gasped loudly and his eyes flew open. He was still alive. The sounds all around him were muffled and his entire body was numb. He could feel a warm wetness on his face and something heavy and immobile was lying on his left arm. He could feel vibrations up through the ground and he realized people were running, getting closer. He tried to lift his head and found that he couldn't.

The cotton in his ears began to melt away and he started to discern voices through the slowly dissipating auditory fog. " _On your knees, get on your knees!" "Somebody get a hold of those damn dogs!" "Put your hands on your head – now!" "You killed ma boy!"_ _"Put the rifles down, put the rifles down!"_ The voices overlapped; anger, grief, frustration and tension hung heavily in the air.

He tried to move again but the pain from his shredded calf muscle proved to be too much and with an agony-filled cry dropped back onto the wet mulch of the forest floor.

Suddenly someone was kneeling at his side and he heard his name repeated over and over, the tone is mixture of concern and relief. The heavy weight on his arm was suddenly gone and he turned his head just enough to see the body of the unknown Scobie being rolled away, his eyes open, a bloody gaping hole in the centre of his chest.

Eli Noble's worried face hung over his own. A gentle hand brushed back the wet hair from his forehead and lingered on his temple. "Steve, can you hear me? Son, can you hear me?"

Blinking, trying to clear his eyes, Steve tried to nod and he saw the sheriff's eyes widen as he exhaled heavily in relief.

"Thank God," Noble breathed and a small smile played over his lips. "Thank God." He sat up slightly and looked the younger cop over. "You've been hit a coupla times, but you're gonna be okay. We're gonna get ya outa here and to a doctor soon as we can."

Steve licked his lips. "Rutter…?"

Noble glanced to his left and Steve saw him swallow hard, look down then meet his eyes evenly. "I'm afraid he's dead, son."

The San Francisco cop squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled deeply. Noble took a handkerchief from his pocket, leaned forward and began to gently wipe the blood from the younger man's face. Suddenly Steve's eyes shot open; the gesture had triggered a memory. "Mike!" he gasped, and Noble pulled his hand away.

"Where is he?" the sheriff asked, suddenly realizing the senior cop wasn't there.

The numbness starting to wear off, Steve fought the rapidly increasing pain. "Sssshot… hidin'… unner ah tree…"

Noble struggled to make sense of the slurred words. He glanced up as Carruthers, carrying a shotgun, approached at a run, kneeling beside his boss. The deputy looked at Steve and smiled grimly when their eyes briefly met, then turned to Noble. "We got 'em all cuffed and the dogs've been muzzled. Alfie's goin' towards the road to radio for more back-up an' get an ambulance up here."

"Good," Noble said quickly, "we gotta get him outa here and we gotta find his partner." On Carruther's confused look, he nodded towards Steve. "I'm trying to find out where he is."

Steve looked at Carruthers, and both Kearney police officers could see that he was rapidly losing consciousness. Noble shook him slightly, not wanting to hurt him but needing more information. "Steve, you gotta tell us, where's Mike?"

"Unner… ah tree… ba… back tuh …tuh road… shh-… ssshot… ha' tuh lea… leave 'im…" Steve eyes closed and they knew he had passed out.

"Shit," Noble growled, and turned to Carruthers in frustration. "We gotta get dogs, our own dogs. Get ahold of KSP and get their canine unit here. We'll go back to the Galaxie – I'm pretty sure their suitcases are still in the trunk – and we'll get the dogs to track the lieutenant. We gotta find him soon 'cause I got a feeling he's in big trouble."

# # # # #

Drifting in and out of consciousness, Steve was only vaguely aware of the effort it took to get him, and the bodies of Rutter and Scobie, out of the dense forest. He knew the place was crawling with law enforcement, and he recognized the grey uniforms of the Kentucky State Police, a few of whom were carrying military style rifles.

He tried unsuccessfully to suppress his groans of pain as he was carefully lifted and laid on a stretcher; Carruthers and three burly KSP officers carried him through the brush. Carruthers, who was at Steve's head, looked down at the injured man and said gently, "You guys were only about a mile from a road. You almost made it."

Steve's attempt at an ironic chuckle turned into a gasp of pain and Carruthers winced.

"You're gonna be okay, Steve," he said encouragingly.

He heard the young cop whisper "Mike…" before he drifted away again.

# # # # #

"Just keep taking deep breaths," a soothing male voice penetrated the fog in his brain and he opened his eyes slightly. He was lying on something soft and warm, and was being bounced around slightly. He was staring at beige upholstery and what looked like a dome light and sluggishly realized he was in an ambulance. He could feel the pressure of an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.

"We'll be at the hospital shortly. You just hang in there. You're gonna be okay."

He blinked slowly, trying to concentrate. He knew he had to tell somebody something but he wasn't sure what it was. He closed his eyes in frustration, then they shot open again and he tried to sit up.

"Mi – Mike," he gasped under the mask.

The attendant leaned forward and put his hands on the injured man's chest, pushing him back onto the gurney. "Shh-shh-shh-shh-shh," he whispered comfortingly, "take it easy, take it easy. Lie down. Relax. You're gonna be okay."

Steve laid back and stared at the roof once more, and he felt tears spring to his eyes. "Mike… I promised him…" he whispered in grief as his grip on consciousness slipped away again.

# # # # #

He could hear the sounds around him before he was completely awake: the beeping of the heart monitor, the soft chimes of the p.a. system, the footsteps and muted voices of people passing by the door, the squeak of gurney wheels in the corridor. Before his eyes were fully open, he heard a deep male voice. "He's waking up."

He opened his eyes slowly in time to see Deputy Carruthers lean across the bed towards him. "Welcome back, Steve," the tall crewcut lawman said with a warm smile.

The San Francisco cop nodded, becoming aware of the cannula under his nose, the IV needle in left forearm, and the dull ache in his right arm and left leg. He looked down at himself: his right arm was strapped across his chest and his left lower leg slightly elevated by two band slings, one close to his knee, the other near his ankle so that there was no pressure anywhere on his heavily bandaged calf.

His eyes floated back to Carruthers, who smiled again. "You're gonna be okay. We got you here in plenty of time and the doctors said your wounds aren't too serious." He glanced away uncomfortably. "Look, ah, I'll go tell the doc you're awake and he can come explain all this to you."

Steve nodded as Carruthers got up from the stool and left the room. He looked around lethargically. He didn't know where he was and couldn't remember why he was there or how he got hurt.

A doctor came into the room, smiling broadly, and began to examine him, keeping up a steady stream of one-sided dialogue, most of it sounding positive and encouraging. But Steve tried to zone it all out, struggling to focus, trying to recall the why and the how. As the doctor was wrapping up, Sheriff Noble entered the room with Carruthers close behind, and suddenly it all came back.

Steve stiffened on the bed, trying to sit up. "Mike!" he gasped as he recognized the sheriff. "Mike, did you find him?"

Noble held out both hands and smiled sympathetically, pushing the injured man back on the bed and sitting on the stool Carruthers had vacated earlier. "Steve, it's good to see you awake. And looking good too, right, Doc?" he said to the physician, who had taken a step back, an inquisitive frown contorting his features.

"Ah, yeah," the doctor said quickly, nodding his head, "he's gonna be fine. Just needs to rest," he said pointedly, staring at his patient. "Gentlemen," he nodded as he left the room with a curious backwards glance.

Steve was staring at Noble, knowing the older man had something to tell him and realizing he was reluctant to do so. With fearful anticipation, Steve recoiled into the thick pillow.

Noble knew he was on shaky emotional ground here and he smiled with sad encouragement before taking a deep breath. He put a gentle hand on Steve's left forearm. "Steve, ah, we brought in the KSP K-9 unit and we got Mike's suitcase from the back of your car. The dogs, they picked up the scent right away. My god, that was pretty rough country you guys went through last night, especially in the dark and the rain. Frankly, we're amazed you guys got as far as you did."

Carruthers, standing behind his boss, nodded in agreement.

"Mike...?" Steve breathed uneasily under the oxygen mask, and Noble nodded before he went on.

"It took them quite a while, but they finally found that tree you told us about, the one Mike was hiding under." Noble stopped and looked down, as if he was unable to continue, then glanced up at Carruthers and back at the young detective. "Steve, he wasn't there."

Steve's eyes shot wide and he inhaled quickly and deeply. He reached up with his left hand and pulled the mask down below his chin. "What do you mean he wasn't there?" he asked dully, not believing what Noble had said.

"I mean, he wasn't there, Steve. They found all kinds of signs that he had been, we know that for sure, but he wasn't there when our boys got there."

Steve waited, wanting to hear more but when Noble wasn't forthcoming, he asked quietly, "Then where is he?"

Noble glanced once more at Carruthers and took another deep breath. "The trail didn't end there. The K-9 unit kept goin'. They followed Mike's scent as far as they could go – well, as far as they were allowed to go."

"What do you mean?" Steve asked when Noble stopped talking again and the silence lengthened.

"Remember me telling you there are places - hollers - around here that law enforcement won't set foot in?" He watched as Steve nodded. "They followed Mike's scent until it disappeared deeper into the holler." He stopped once more, looked away and then back. "Steve, we're pretty sure the Caudills have him."


	9. Chapter 9

Steve stared into Noble's empathetic eyes. "The Caudills?" he repeated breathlessly, and the sheriff nodded. Steve swallowed, almost reluctant to ask his next question. "Do you, ah, do you think he's still alive?"

Noble managed a small smile. "I do. I think if they were gonna kill him, they woulda done it right then and there. The fact that we didn't find his body, well, that tells me they have plans for him."

Relaxing very slightly, Steve's brow furrowed. "What kind of plans?"

Noble glanced over his shoulder and Carruthers looked quickly at his boss then back at Steve. "Remember last night when we got called back to town," the deputy began, "somethin' about the Caudills headin' over to the Rutters to settle some score, about a couple of Caudill boys gettin' busted for sellin' H?"

Steve nodded, wondering where all this was going.

"Well, it was all bullshit," Carruthers said, and Noble nodded in affirmation.

The sheriff continued. "Somethin' about the way Betty, our dispatcher, worded the call, it sounded hinky to me but there was nothin' I could do about it bein' as we were so far away. If somethin' _was_ goin' on, I didn't want to tip my hand that I was onto it and maybe put her life in danger. So when we got back to Kearney, I sent Lonny here on towards the Rutters, and Alfie and I went to the station."

Noble took a breath and shook his head in disbelief. "Betty was locked in my office, her hands tied behind her back and a piece of tape over her mouth. She said one of the Scobie boys came in – she's not sure which one – and before she knew it, he had a shotgun pointed at her head and he made her make the call."

Steve had lain quietly, so focused he was hardly blinking. "Is she okay?" he asked, almost uneasily.

Both uniformed police officers nodded enthusiastically. "She's a pretty tough lady," Carruthers said with a warm laugh. "She's been doing that job for over 30 years and she rarely misses a day. She was mortified, and she's blaming herself for everything's that happened."

Steve was shaking his head. "She doesn't need to –"

"We've been telling her over and over again," Noble interrupted him with a smile, "but once all of this is finished and done, whatever you and Mike can do to reassure her she's not to blame, well, that would go a long way, believe me."

At the mention of his partner's name, Steve refocused. "Uh, you were telling me about the Caudills…?" he prompted.

"Yeah, right," Carruthers nodded, "well, it turned out that two of the Caudill boys _were_ nabbed up near Frankfort a couple of days ago for selling 'shine, not H, and it had nothing to do with the Rutters."

"When we heard from Betty what'd happened, I radio'd Lonny, and Alfie and I high-tailed it back to where we'd left you. When we found your car, we also found a couple of Scobie pick-ups there too."

"Turns out the Scobies have CBs in their trucks and have a channel all their own." There was no mistaking the awe in Carruthers voice and Noble's eyes were wide as he nodded in confirmation. "So now, of course, we're assuming all the other families do too."

"So anyway, we realized you guys were on foot and they were after you, and from what we could see from one of the pick-ups, they had their hounds with 'em. So we knew we had to move fast, literally." Noble paused and a smile actually appeared. "One thing about bloodhounds, Steve, for future reference: they're easy to follow! You can't shut 'em up! And they get so set on trackin' that scent you don't have to be all that quiet followin' 'em because they're makin' so much damn noise!"

The two Kearney cops allowed themselves a small chuckle and even Steve joined in.

Carruthers picked up the account. "Just before we headed into the bush, we were joined by one of the KSP units that had started headin' towards you from the 75. And it just happened to have two of the state's finest shots in it, both of who were carrying M40's that they'd used in 'Nam."

"Was it one of them that took down the Scobie that was going to kill me?" Steve asked quietly.

Noble nodded silently, then he looked away and cleared his throat. "Steve, are you a big believer in coincidence?"

The San Francisco detective couldn't resist a quiet smile. "It's Mike who doesn't believe in coincidence. Me, on the other hand, well, the jury is still out for me."

"Well, I'll let you decide then." He paused again and glanced at Carruthers before saying quietly, "The KSP trooper who took Alvin Scobie down? His name is Daryl Caudill."

Steve froze and his eyes slowly widened. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

Noble was nodding slowly. "Yeah, one of _them_ Caudills. One of the grandsons. He walked out of the holler about ten years ago and joined the Marines. Served three tours in 'Nam as a sniper, won a Silver Star and two Bronze Stars. Came back here after he mustered out and joined the KSP. And he's had nothin' to do with his family in all that time."

"Wow," Steve shook his head, impressed.

"Yeah," Carruthers said quietly, "we were really lucky he was with us last night and he was on our side."

"He sure cut it fine," Steve said, swallowing heavily and shuddering at the memory.

"Steve, he took that shot almost on the run. He saw Scobie raise the rifle and he just put his eye to the scope and snapped off the shot." Noble paused. "Believe me, we're all grateful he's as good as he is."

The San Francisco cop had closed his eyes, put his head back and was taking deep breaths as the reality of how close he had come to certain death sunk home. The Kearney cops waited patiently until he had pulled himself together enough to open his eyes. "So, what do you think the Caudills are going to do with Mike, if they have him?" he asked softly, fear almost taking his voice away.

"Well," Noble began, taking a deep breath, "now that we know the KSP really did arrest two of the young 'uns, well, we've been developin' a theory. And if we're right about this, then it'll be a good thing, believe me."

"An exchange …?" Steve interrupted hopefully.

Noble smiled. "Yeah, an exchange."

"And the KSP would allow that to happen?"

Noble and his deputy exchanged a glance. "Well, that's what puts the fly in the ointment, so to speak. As far as any of us know, they've never done anything like this before, on the record anyway, and we'll have to take it to the highest authorities, of course, 'cause it would set some kind of really, really bad precedent if we did it, but… well, all we can think is, it's a winning hand for players."

Suddenly energized, Steve started to sit up, but an unexpected pain in his left shoulder paralyzed him and dropped him back onto the bed. "What the hell?" he muttered when he got his voice back. He'd forgotten about hitting the tree when the first bullet took him off his feet.

Carruthers nodded towards Steve's shoulder with his chin. "It ain't broke but it's pretty badly bruised," he said with an empathetic smile. "You hit a tree or something?"

Steve nodded slowly. "Yeah, it _was_ a tree. I'd forgotten about it till just now. Ow!" he moaned, still trying to get his breath back. Finally getting a grip on the pain, he looked at Noble once more. "Listen, uh, if some input from the powers that be in the SFPD would help, I could make a call."

"Already done that," the sheriff smiled. He hesitated, then plowed on, "As a matter of fact, a couple of your guys are headin' out here. Should be here sometime late tomorrow."

Steve's eyebrows rose sharply. "Who?" he asked.

"Oh, ah, a Captain Olsen and a, oh, ah, a lieutenant, I can't recall his name off-hand, sorry," Noble apologized.

"No, that's okay," Steve said slowly, wondering if the lieutenant could be Devitt.

"Anyway, we're already in touch with the local judge, who is very sympathetic to law enforcement and he's willing to hear the arguments for and against such a swap, if that's what's gonna happen. We've already told him the details about what went on last night and what's goin' on right now, and though he hasn't let on one way or the other which way he'll lean, we're all pretty encouraged, let me tell ya."

Steve had begun to relax the more Noble talked; it seemed like the small-town sheriff was a very smart man with a very good heart.

"And if he agrees, then we'll go higher up in the KSP and see how they feel about it. We know decisions have to be made in the next several hours if we want a good outcome from all this, but we can only go so far right now, Steve. The, ah, the Caudills have to make the first move, and until we hear from them, we're powerless." Noble paused, watching as the young detective's focus turned inward. It was obvious he was very worried about his partner. "Mike was hit in the shoulder, wasn't he?"

Steve looked up again, nodding. "Yeah, the right shoulder. How did you know?"

"We dug the bullets out of your Galaxie. One of the ones from the back seat had blood on it."

"It, ah, it was a through-and-through. It might have broken his collarbone but it seemed to be a pretty clean shot. All things considered, he was lucky."

"You got that right," Noble agreed. "You should see the size of those damn bullets."

"But he's gotta be in so much pain," Steve whispered, a catch in his voice and fear in his tone. "Um, do you know, I mean, could they tell if he walked out or was he carried out?" he asked anxiously.

Noble smiled. "Well, funny you should ask, they _can_ tell. The dogs can do what they call a ground scent, which is stronger than an air scent. And with Mike, they had a ground scent, which means he was at least walkin' when he moved away from that tree. They didn't find any sign that he'd been dragged, so he must have been on his feet." He paused and flashed Steve an encouraging smile. "That's a good sign, isn't it?"

Steve managed a small smile in return, but the others could tell he was being eaten alive with anguish and guilt. An uneasy silence settled over the room then he asked quietly, "Rutter's family. Have they been told?"

Both Noble and Carruthers nodded. "I told Rutter's father and grandfather this mornin'. They didn't say much, but I have a feelin' they're gonna take matters into their own hands sometime down the road, and there's gonna be nothin' we can do about it."

Steve looked at him and they could see the emotional pain in his dark-rimmed eyes. "He turned out to be a pretty good guy, you know. He saved Mike and me, he really did. He didn't deserve to die, not like that." He sighed heavily, and the other could see that he was starting to lose strength. As he settled back against the pillows, he said softly, "When all this is over, and we've got Mike back, I'd like to talk to his family if they'll let me."

Noble and Carruthers both stood. The sheriff laid a comforting hand on Steve's arm. "I'll see what I can do. You rest now, get some sleep, and when you wake up, well, let's hope we're well on our way to getting your partner back, all right?"

The city detective had already fallen asleep and Noble gestured for Carruthers to follow him to the door. As they stepped out into the corridor, the deputy turned to his boss. "Your lips to God's ears, right, sir?"

"I sure hope so, Lonny, I sure hope so."


	10. Chapter 10

"Good mornin'!" Deputy Alfie Carter was sitting beside the bed, his campaign hat in his hands and a wide smile on his open, friendly face.

Steve blinked several times, lifting his head slightly and looking around the small hospital room, trying once more to get his bearings. It didn't take long for everything to come flooding back, and he closed his eyes again and dropped his head back onto the pillow.

"How are you feelin'?"

Steve nodded, frowning. "Any, ah, any news about Mike yet?" He tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

"Sheriff Noble and Lonny are workin' on that right now. They told me to let 'em know when you woke up, they have some stuff to tell ya." He got up. "Be right back." He left the room quickly.

Steve stared at the ceiling. He tried to ignore the throbbing ache in his arm and leg. He caught his breath with a fearful observation: if he was in so much pain, he could only imagine what Mike was going through. It had been almost two days since he'd been shot and, as far as anyone knew, hadn't received any medical attention at all in that time.

"Steve!" he heard his name called out as Noble hurried into the room. There was a smile on the sheriff's face that instantly, though he didn't know exactly why, brought a wave of relief washing over him. He lifted his head again.

"Mike…?" he began but Noble cut him off, raising his hands.

"We haven't got him back yet, but it's definitely in the works." He glanced at his deputy. "Alfie, why don't you raise the bed a little bit? It'll make it easier for us to talk. Is that okay?" He checked with Steve, who nodded, then sat on the stool. The enthusiasm he was exuding was contagious and Steve found himself almost leaning forward.

"A lot's happened while you were sleeping, and all of it good." He suddenly realized he was rushing and stopped, glancing at the bed table. He had noticed the injured man licking his dry lips. "Oh, sorry, ah, you want a drink of water?" he asked. When Steve nodded, Noble glanced at Carter. "Alfie, do you mind?" Shaking his head and smiling, the deputy crossed to the table, poured a glass of ice water, tossed a straw into it and held it for Steve to sip as Noble pressed on.

"Where do I start?" The sheriff said almost to himself, then grinned. "Well, it was just as we suspected. We got a call from one of the Caudill sons about four hours ago."

" _One_ of the sons?" Steve interrupted.

"Ah, yeah, the head of the Caudill family is an old reprobate named J.B. He's at least 90 by now, right, Alfie?" The deputy nodded. "But sharp as a tack and nobody, and I mean _nobody_ , crosses him. None of his eight sons or seventeen grandsons and certainly none of the countless number of great-grandsons.

"Anyway, the son told us they had somethin' we wanted and we had somethin' they wanted and that they were willin' to talk swap. Which, of course, is exactly what we were hopin' they'd say."

"Did you ask him if Mike was still alive?" Steve asked quietly.

Noble nodded. "Yeah, 'course we did." He sounded a little perturbed that Steve needed to question their professionalism, but he also knew the strain the young man was under. Smiling gently, almost in apology, he continued, "Actually, all he said was 'Ya'll git what ya git' but, Steve, I really think Mike's alive. These hill people do have a code – it might not be one we're all familiar with, but it _is_ a code. They know if they give us back a body instead of a cop, that nothin'll stop the entire KSP _and_ the FBI from comin' down on 'em and wipin' 'em out."

Steve had stared at the older man while he talked, and the logic and sincerity in the words rang true. Slowly he began to nod and when Noble paused, a thankful and relieved smile played over his lips. "So, ah, so what happens now?" he asked softly.

Noble glanced over his shoulder at Carter and smiled. "Well, our good luck continued. Remember that judge I told you about yesterday who we went to about the legality of the swap?" Steve nodded. "Well, he said he has no problem with it, so we went to the KSP. Seems Trooper Caudill – the one who saved your life? – well, he'd already been talking to his superiors up in Frankfort and, well… this is on the QT, you hear?" Noble leaned forward and lowered his voice a notch. "The KSP is shutting its metaphorical eyes on this one. They say it's a local matter and should be handled by the local police force in the best way they see fit, and they don't want to hear anymore about it."

Noble sat back, a satisfied grin on his face. Steve stared at him blankly, not quite processing what he had just been told. His eyes slid from the sheriff to the deputy and back. "You mean…?"

"I mean we're getting everything arranged right now. Trooper Caudill and his partner are 'escorting' the two Caudills they have in custody back down here from Frankfort and as soon as they get here, we set up the meet. We could have Mike back in a couple a hours."

He let the younger man deal with the blizzard of new information that had come so fast and furious. As the pieces started to connect in the injured man's narcotized brain, an almost relieved smile started to slowly build. "I want to be there."

Noble hesitated, pulling his head back and frowning. He wasn't sure what he'd heard. "Excuse me?"

"When you make the exchange, I want to be there," Steve said firmly, trying to sit up a little more.

Noble began to stand, shaking his head. "No no no, son, you can't leave this bed. You're not up to it yet."

"I'm fine," Steve said, pushing himself into a sitting position and trying not to wince as pain shot through both his upper right arm and left shoulder.

"Steve, you can't use either arm and your leg. How are you gonna get there?"

"How are _you_ going to get there? By car, right? Well, put me in a car and take me with you." The San Francisco detective stared at Noble with defiance, daring him to deny the request.

"In your hospital gown?" Noble shot back, trying to dissuade the determined young man.

"I have a change of clothes in my suitcase – and I know you have it. You said you had Mike's so you must have mine as well."

His expression unreadable, knowing he was beat, Noble looked at Carter, who just raised his eyebrows and tilted his head.

Steve's audacious stare softened. "Sheriff, I have to be there. Mike's not just my partner, he's my best friend. And I had to leave him behind…" He looked away and cleared his throat. "He's been shot… and he's been on his own… and I need to be there for him… I promised…" He paused, finishing almost inaudibly, "I need to be there for myself."

Noble's eyes finally left the young man's, and he had taken a breath to begin speaking when Carter put a light hand on his boss's shoulder. "I could take him, sir. I'll bring him in my car and we'll keep out of the way, I swear."

Steve looked at the deputy in gratitude, then back to the sheriff. Noble sighed. "All right. _If_ –" he raised a finger and Steve, who had begun to smile, froze, "- _if_ your doctor says it's okay. Am I clear on this?"

There was a lightness in his tone the belied the toughness of his words, and for a split second the country lawman reminded him very much of a certain big city lieutenant. A warmth spread over him that he hadn't felt in awhile and seriously thought he would never feel again.

# # # # #

The KSP cruisers were facing the wide dirt road, the front doors of both cars open to allow the slight breeze to blow into the back seats. Sheriff Noble, Deputy Carruthers and two KSP officers were standing in front of the two cars; in both back seats, a handcuffed young Caudill man sat beside another state trooper.

The day had turned hot and sticky, and the humidity was something the San Francisco detective wasn't used to. He was sitting in the front passenger seat of a Kearney cruiser way off to one side, in the shade of a chestnut oak, almost hidden and definitely away from the action. Deputy Carter was standing beside him at the open door. Both pairs of eyes were on the empty road before them.

Noble glanced at his watch. It was already five minutes past the scheduled meeting time. He shuffled nervously and glanced quickly across to the cruiser where the heavily bandaged and medicated Californian was staring anxiously through the windshield. He could only imagine what the young detective was going through.

"Here they come," he heard one of the KSP troopers announce and turned back to see two dirty blue 1950's era pick-up trucks roll into view over the ridge. Even from a distance they could see at least three large, bearded and heavily armed men standing in the beds of both trucks. Noble heard the KSP troopers unsnap their sidearms and he swallowed with uncharacteristic nervousness.

The first pick-up came straight towards them, then swung into a wide circle and pulled to a stop about 30 yards in front, facing away. The second truck drove straight up alongside it. Leaving the engines idling, the driver of the truck facing them got out. Noble recognized the tall, white haired and bearded elderly man as J.B. Caudill, the family patriarch; even though he was close to 90, he was a force to be reckoned with, and nobody moved.

Steve strained forward in the seat, scrutinizing the trucks. "I don't see Mike," he said apprehensively to Carter, who put a warning hand on his arm. The detective's mere presence was enough to throw a monkey wrench into this entire operation and Carter had to make sure no undue notice would be paid.

"Where are they?" Caudill growled, dispensing with any pretense of civility.

Noble took a step forward. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "In the cruisers. But we want to see Lieutenant Stone before we let them go." He thought by using Mike's title, he could impress upon the family Caudill the importance of their hostage.

The elder Caudill nodded coldly and spat on the ground with a low mirthless chuckle. "It ain' gonna work that way. We git our boys first… or we go home." He finished with a dead-eyed stare that Noble was only just able to meet. In his many years in law enforcement, the Kearney sheriff had never encountered anyone who exuded such frighteningly calm menace as this old man.

Noble hesitated, glancing up at the six heavily armed family members standing in the truck beds and realized any chance of gaining the upper hand in this negotiation was already gone. He turned his head slightly and nodded, and heard two car doors behind him open.

The troopers in the back seats got out of their respective cars, pulling the two Caudill boys out with them. Both boys looked anxiously towards their great-grandfather, their expressions unreadable, and waited while the handcuffs were removed.

Without looking back, the two young Caudills moved slowly away from the cops and started across the neutral territory between the two camps. They continued to eye their great-grandfather as they got closer but his stare never left Noble, who managed to glare back, even though he could feel the sweat trickling down the back of his shirt. And he knew it wasn't from the weather.

"Git in the trucks," Caudill senior growled lowly as his great-grandsons joined him and they continued on to sit in the passenger seats of both pick-ups. Breaking off his stare at Noble, the family patriarch turned slowly, walked the few steps back to his truck and got behind the wheel.

Steve watched as the pick-up facing the police cars crept forward, swung around the second one and then accelerated up the swell and disappeared back towards the holler. He glanced quickly back and forth between Carter and the pick-up that was still there. "Where's Mike?" he whispered anxiously, "They've gotta have him. Where is -?"

Carter put his hand lightly on Steve's right shoulder, careful to avoid the wound in his upper arm, and shushed him quickly. One of the gun-toters in the back of the pick-up glanced their way and Steve froze.

The driver of the second pick-up got out and walked to the back of the truck. He slipped out the two bolts that held the tailgate up, then stepped aside and let it slam down.

Noble inhaled sharply and glanced toward the Kearney cruiser. From that angle, he realized Steve wouldn't be able to see into the truck bed. He looked back at the pick-up and closed his eyes briefly, trying to stay calm. There was a body lying motionless in the bed of the truck, and he easily recognized Mike Stone's black shoes and dark grey suit.


	11. Chapter 11

Steve had seen Noble's shocked glance in his direction, and he knew.

Under his touch, Carter could feel the San Francisco detective freeze in fear and alarm, and he increased the pressure of his hand, knowing he had to keep his colleague where he was.

Noble willed himself to the spot as two of the men in the back of the truck put their shotguns down, stepped onto the lowered tailgate and jumped to the ground. One of them and the driver reached back into the bed, grabbed Mike's legs and began to pull him forward.

"No!" Steve gasped when he realized what the Caudills were doing. Carter felt him begin to rise and pushed him back down, digging his fingers into the detective's shoulder in warning.

The third man on the ground reached back into the bed as they got Mike's legs over the lip of the tailgate and he grabbed Mike's belt and his left arm at the shoulder. They dragged him the rest of the way out. Clear of the tailgate, Mike's head lolled back and his right arm hung limply. The three men carried him away from the truck and, with unexpected restraint, laid him almost gently in the middle of the road.

Noble, who had yet to tear his eyes from Mike's body, resisted the urge to run forward. Beside him, he could hear an almost inaudible whimper from Carruthers.

Scrambling back onto the truck, the two dark-bearded Caudills picked up their shotguns while the third man got behind the wheel. As the driver shifted into gear, one of the men in the back picked something off the floor of the bed and tossed it behind the truck. Misshapen and soiled, the grey fedora landed brim up on the dirt road. Within seconds the pick-up had followed the first one and disappeared over the swell.

Noble turned his head quickly. "Get on the horn and get that ambulance up here now!" he barked as he and Carruthers started to sprint towards the body on the road.

Steve tried to get out of the car but Carter stopped him. "Stay there, I'll drive us closer!" he barked as he slammed the door, raced around the car and got behind the wheel.

Steve could feel his chest heaving and his nostrils flaring, watching helplessly as Noble and Carruthers skidded to a stop beside the unmoving figure and knelt. Carter stood on the gas and the cruiser spun dirt and gravel as it crossed the short distance to where Mike lay, sliding as he braked and the passenger side door swung open. Ignoring his own pain, Steve pulled himself out and dropped to the ground. "Mike…" he breathed in fear as he reached for his partner's motionless body.

Noble grabbed Steve's arms, trying to hold him back. "Easy, easy, Steve, easy, he's alive, he's breathing," the sheriff cautioned soothingly.

Steve tore his eyes from his partner to glance up at Noble, and the older man could see he was close to panic. "If he's going to die, he's going to die in my arms." There was so much hopelessness in his voice that the two police officers were stunned into momentary silence.

Then Noble increased the pressure of his grip on Steve's wrists and held him still. He stared unblinking into the frightened green eyes. "He's not going to die, Steve," the sheriff stated boldly. "We're not going to let him, I promise you." He held the younger man's stare for several long seconds, then Steve began to relax. As if gaining control of himself, he nodded quickly and the wisp of a smile even appeared.

"Here," Carter said as he skidded to a stop beside them, "I keep a couple of jars of water in the trunk, just in case, you know." He handed Carruthers a mason jar and Noble pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. Carruthers popped the lid off the jar and poured the warm water on the hanky.

As Steve held Mike's head in his lap, Noble gently began to wipe the grime from the lieutenant's beard-stubbled face. He could feel how hot Mike was under his touch. Some of it, he knew, was from lying unprotected in the unforgiving midday sun, but he also suspected the lieutenant was running a fever, no doubt the result of the untended gunshot wound. Mike's eyes were closed and his mouth slightly open. His skin, which should have been moist with sweat, was unnaturally dry; Noble knew from experience that he was dangerously dehydrated. Suddenly he hoped that his promise to Steve could be honoured.

The lapels of Mike's disheveled and filthy dark grey suitcoat lay open and, even through the dirt and dust, the dried blood on his right shoulder and upper chest stood out starkly against the light blue of the knitted vest and blue-and-white shirt. The stain was bigger than Steve remembered and, if possible, his heart began to pound even more.

A vehicle slid to a stop very nearby and they all glanced up at the ambulance. Two attendants got out quickly, one crossing to kneel beside Mike while Carter helped the second remove the stretcher from the back and wheel it closer. They knew they would be dealing with a gunshot wound at the very least and were prepared.

"I'm pretty sure he's dehydrated," Noble offered as he and Carruthers moved back slightly and the attendants positioned themselves to lift Mike onto the gurney. Steve relinquished his hold on Mike's head as the two attendants, Carter and Carruthers gently and easily raised the injured man and set him carefully on the stretcher. Noble helped Steve stagger to his feet, all his weight on his right leg. As he started to take a painful step forward, Noble held him back.

"No, Steve, you can't ride in the ambulance, there's not enough room. And they've gotta tend to Mike, right? They don't need you in the way," he tried to reason with the distraught younger man. "Look, ah, we'll let one of the state cruisers take the lead, and you and Carter follow the ambulance. Carruthers and I'll bring up the rear in the other car. Lights and sirens all the way. How does that sound?"

Unable to tear his eyes from the gurney being loaded into the back of the small station wagon-sized ambulance, Steve nodded absentmindedly. Turning his worried gaze towards Carter, Noble nodded, and the youngest deputy took Steve's arm and helped him the few short steps back to the Kearney cruiser.

Getting the city detective settled in the passenger seat, Carter circled the Chevy Caprice and slid behind the wheel, snapping on the siren and lights as he peeled out behind the ambulance. He glanced across the front seat; Steve was staring, almost unblinking, at the vehicle in front of them. Carter swallowed heavily. He had no one at this point in his life who generated such deep love and unquestioned devotion, and he smiled sadly in bittersweet envy.

The small convoy navigated the rough dirt road as rapidly as possible, then picked up speed when they hit the blacktop of the county road. Steve had been surprised at how long it had taken to drive from the hospital to the meeting place, which was very near where their night of terror had taken place. He wasn't aware that the hospital was in Harlan, the next county over, more than doubling the distance they had to cover.

And now, he realized, it would take them almost that long to get back. And though he knew Mike was in good hands, he wondered if his partner was strong enough to survive the trip. The country roads were decent, at best, but very winding and narrow. It would be a long and worrisome journey.

They had been screaming along for about twenty minutes when the ambulance braked suddenly and pulled to the side of the road. On its tail, Carter slid the Caprice onto the tight shoulder as the cruiser behind did the same. Alarmed, Steve turned to Carter as he shifted into Park and got out all in one movement, sprinting to the ambulance. He watched with growing anxiety as Noble ran past their car and joined his deputy at the ambulance driver's window.

They talked for several long seconds, then Steve saw Noble nod and both he and Carter turned and started back to their respective cars. Noble stopped at Steve's window as Carter got back behind the wheel. Noble smiled encouragingly, "You can relax, Steve. They want to get a saline IV goin' in Mike's arm and they can't do that safely when the ambulance is movin'. But he's doin' okay, don't worry."

As he finished, the ambulance pulled out onto the road again and Carter began to follow. Noble sprinted back to his car and quickly caught up. Closing his eyes and taking a deep relieved breath, Steve settled back into the seat.

# # # # #

The remainder of the high-speed trip back to the Harlan hospital passed without incident. Carter pulled the Caprice close to the back of the ambulance when it stopped outside the Emergency entrance. Two hospital attendants moved quickly to the ambulance back doors and opened them, beginning to slide the stretcher out.

Steve had opened the Caprice door and, wincing from the pain, pulled himself up to stand unsteadily, watching with his heart in his mouth as the gurney legs unfolded and its occupant came into sight. The ambulance attendant slipped out beside the stretcher, holding the IV bag aloft, as the small entourage hustled towards the open glass doors.

Mike's torso was exposed; his clothes had been cut off in the ambulance. A clean, white square bandage covered the wound in his right shoulder. The IV line was in his left forearm. His mouth and nose were covered with a clear plastic oxygen mask, the cylinder lying on the gurney between his legs. His shoes and socks were off.

In seconds, the stretcher and attendants disappeared through the doors and out of sight. Steve started to push himself away from the Caprice when Carruthers appeared next to him with a wheelchair. "Get in," the deputy said quickly, "I've got ya. Alfie's gotta move the car. "

Glancing at Carruthers gratefully, Steve turned and sat, trying not to moan from the pain. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as Carruthers slammed the door and started to push him towards the hospital entrance.

The gurney was nowhere to be seen when Steve and Carruthers approached the desk. The clerk looked up and smiled. "Lonny," she greeted the uniformed officer kindly, including Steve in her warm gaze, "they've taken the Lieutenant into Examination Room Three. Now you know you can't go in there, but if you and, ah, the Inspector," another smile at Steve, "wait here, I'm sure they'll be out to let you know what's going on as soon as they can."

With a smile and chuckle, Carruthers wheeled Steve deeper into the waiting room. He leaned over and whispered in the city detective's ear, "It's a small hospital – everyone knows everything. Believe me, you and your partner are big news around here, and everybody knows who you are."

Steve managed a smile through his worry. "I came from a small town," he said, nodding. "I know what you mean."

# # # # #

Noble looked at the almost somnambulant young detective. The forgotten slice of pizza in front of him was getting cold. Noble gestured with the head towards the uneaten meal. "You're not hungry?" he asked gently.

Steve shook his head slightly, as if waking himself up, and looked towards the sheriff. "Oh, ah, no, sorry, no, not right now."

They had been waiting for over an hour. Noble had sent Carruthers and Carter back to Kearney, then had a pizza and sodas delivered. He wasn't sure how long they were going to have to wait, and he knew the younger man hadn't eaten much in the past forty-eight hours. He had hoped the appetizing smell from the all dressed pizza would stimulate his appetite, but so far it hadn't worked.

Someone nearby cleared his throat and both Steve and Noble looked up. A tall dark-haired doctor about Steve's age was standing over them. "Sheriff," he said, nodding, and Noble got quickly to his feet.

"Oh, ah, Doctor O'Neil," Noble said, wiping his right hand on his pants before reaching out to shake the doctor's. "This is Inspector Keller from the San Francisco Police Department." He nodded towards Steve. "Your patient is his partner."

O'Neil smiled at Steve and leaned forward slightly to shake his hand. "Yes, I'm aware of that," he said pleasantly. "Inspector."

"Steve, please," the city detective said, but the anxiousness of his tone told the doctor he wanted to dispense with the pleasantries. "How is he?"

Glancing at Noble, O'Neil sat and faced the very worried young man.


	12. Chapter 12

Doctor Paul O'Neil smiled warmly and confidently. "Steve, you can relax. Your partner – Mike's his name, right?" The two heads staring at him nodded. "He's going to be okay. I know it didn't look like it when you got him here, but all is not what it seems sometimes."

Steve eyes widened and he swallowed heavily before releasing a held breath and looking at Noble, as if for confirmation. The sheriff's relieved smile and loud exhale were all Steve needed to see to know he had heard the doctor correctly.

"Now he still has a couple of small hills to climb before he can leave here, as you do as well," O'Neil said with a knowing look at the young detective, his eyes snapping to the bandaged arm and leg, "but believe me, they're not insurmountable. First off, he's quite severely dehydrated and we'll be keeping him on intravenous fluids for as long as necessary, probably for the next several hours at least, but he's already starting to look better in that regard.

"He has a fairly serious infection in the wound channel, most likely caused by the fibres from the layers of clothes the bullet went through, but we've already got him on IV antibiotics and we should have that under control soon as well. The biggest obstacle is his collarbone. It was very badly broken, not by the bullet mind you, but by the… 'shock wave', you could call it, that accompanies such a high velocity round."

O'Neil paused to let all this new information sink in, knowing that the inspector's initial relief was now being seriously compromised with this seemingly endless litany of problems his partner was facing.

"Considering he's a middle-aged man shot in the shoulder with a high velocity bullet then left to fend for himself in the bush overnight and not receiving any medical attention for forty-eight hours, he's doing very well," O'Neil said with a chuckle and hopefully enough encouragement in his voice to take the gravity and sting out of his words.

"Not to worry, Steve," the doctor continued when he figured the young cop had enough time to process, "we have one of the country's best orthopedic surgeons on staff at Saint Joseph's up in Lexington. Our Chief of Surgery here has already been on the horn to him and he's ready and willing to operate as soon as possible. But, we have to get him here from Lexington. And that's where we appeal to the good graces of a higher power, so to speak."

O'Neil sat back with a smile and glanced at Noble, who had been listening with a wary frown. The sheriff's eyes narrowed and he stared at the doctor with a growing appreciation and ever-broadening smile. "Fort Campbell," was all the lawman said, and the doctor's grin got wider as he nodded vigorously.

Steve, who was looking from one to the other, focused on O'Neil. "Um…?" He managed to raise his shoulders slightly in a shrug.

"I've heard about this happening before," Noble began slowly, talking to Steve but keeping his eyes on the doctor, "about using the military to get medical assistance to the more… far-flung areas of the state. Am I right?"

O'Neil nodded. "The commanding general there is very hands-on when it comes to providing services to the outlying communities in Kentucky and Tennessee. And he has authorized the use of military equipment many times over the years – especially during floods or after tornados. It's been amazing, it really has."

"So what's all this have to do with Mike…?" Steve asked quietly.

"The base is gonna send a helicopter to Lexington; they'll pick up Dr. Patel and fly him here. We'll have Mike prepped and ready for him, he'll do the operation and then they'll fly him back upstate. Mike'll have to spend a few more days here to recover, of course… as do you," O'Neil stared pointedly at Steve with a warm smile, "and then we'll be able to send you both home, hopefully well on the mend. How does that sound?"

Overwhelmed, by the logistics, the detail and the heart-warming concern for their welfare, Steve found himself at a loss for words. He had initially thought that Mike would be flown to Lexington and he had managed to hold his tongue; he had no wish to be separated from his partner again so soon. But as he listened and realized the orthopedic surgeon was coming to them, he relaxed.

"That, um, wow, that's amazing, it really is. Thank you."

"No need to thank me, I've got nothing to do with all that. I'm just a small cog in the big wheel." The doctor chuckled and the others did as well.

"So when is all this scheduled to take place?"

"Well, we want to wait until Mike is stronger; we want his fluid levels back to normal and the infection well under control. And we still have some details to iron out with the base and the hospital in Lexington but we're hoping for the day after tomorrow."

Steve nodded, digesting everything. "Is he starting to wake up yet?"

O'Neil shook his head. "Not yet. I'm sure his unresponsiveness right now is a combination of a lot of factors, not the least of which are the dehydration and the infection. But like I said, he's starting to respond to the fluids so I should think we'll begin to see him come around in a few hours." O'Neil got to his feet. "We're going to be taking him to Intensive Care for the next couple of days, just as a precaution but, before we do, would you like to spend a couple of minutes with him?"

"Oh, uh, yeah," Steve stumbled, caught off-guard.

O'Neil's smile got wider. "Then come with me. Sheriff, you care to do the honours?"

He gestured at the wheelchair as Noble scrambled to his feet.

"It would be my pleasure," the sheriff laughed, slipping behind the wheelchair and starting to push as O'Neil led them towards the examination room.

# # # # #

Alone, the heavy wooden door having closed behind him when Noble released the chair and let him wheel himself deeper into the room, Steve slowly approached the gurney. It was high, and from his seated position his head was just slightly above the top of the bed.

Mike was lying flat. The remainder of his clothes had been removed and he was covered with a light blue hospital gown. The white bandage over the wound was still in place, but now his right arm was secured across his chest, his shoulder stabilized. The saline IV remained in his left forearm; the second IV, the antibiotics for the infection, was attached to the back of his left hand. He was still on oxygen, but the tank had been replaced with the line from the panel behind the bed.

As Steve reached for his partner's left hand, he could see the dried blood on Mike's right shoulder and he squeezed the unresponsive hand a little tighter. "Hey, Mike," he started quietly, hoping his voice didn't reflect the stress and worry he was still feeling. "I'm here. We got you back and you're in the hospital in Harlan." He watched as the older man took several strong deep breaths and he relaxed slightly. "You're gonna be okay, it's just gonna take a little while. Same as me. We're both gonna be okay."

He swallowed heavily, unable to continue. He felt content to just sit and watch, and try not to think. It has been a horrific couple of days, and he was still nowhere near to coming to grips with it all. In truth, he hadn't even started.

There was so much he had to get straight in his mind, and he knew it was going to take time, maybe more time that he could conceive of at the moment. The ambush on the road and frenzied scramble through the bush; having to leave his injured partner behind; watching his prisoner turned ally cut down before his eyes; being shot twice himself and almost coldly executed; and then having to witness the seemingly lifeless body of his partner dragged from the back of a pick-up truck and dumped in the middle of a road, were things he knew he would have to deal with, and soon, if he had any prayer of returning to San Francisco the same cop that had left.

There was Mike. He knew his partner was as yet unaware of Rutter's death, as well as his own injuries, for which Mike would no doubt blame himself. And what had happened after Mike had been discovered by the Caudills? How had he been treated? Was his current unconscious state the result of what they had done to him?

And then there were the Scobies. Steve knew he was going to be blamed by them for the death of Alvin Scobie and the as-yet unnamed 'victim' of his hit-and-run. Were the Scobies aiming to settle the score before he and Mike could head back to San Francisco? Were they being guarded? Suddenly unsettled, Steve sat up a little straighter, anxious to bring that up with Noble.

As if reading his mind, the door opened and Noble and O'Neil entered the room, smiling. "See, he's doing better already," the doctor said with a smile and a nod at the injured man on the gurney. "Steve, I'm gonna let the sheriff take you to your room, and we're gonna let the staff here get Mike cleaned up and then he'll be taken to ICU. Once he gets settled in there, you can come back to see him again. How does that sound?"

Anxious to speak to Noble about the Scobies, Steve released Mike's hand, after a final quick squeeze, and nodded. "Thanks, Doc."

Noble wheeled the chair out of the room and when they were in the corridor heading towards the elevators, Steve turned slightly and asked, "Eli, I was wondering about the Scobies. I'm pretty sure they hold me responsible for the death of whoever it was I hit with the Galaxie when we got ambushed, and for aiding and abetting Rutter. And I'm sure they blame me for Alvin Scobie being killed too. Do you think they'll come after Mike and me?"

Noble, who had been listening carefully and nodding all the while, waited until they were alone in the elevator. "Don't worry, Steve, we're on it and we've been on it since that night in the woods. You've never been alone, and you won't be until both of you are safely on a plane and out of the state, so don't worry about it."

"But you guys can't be with us all the time. You have a town to police and there's only the three of you."

Noble smiled. "And that's why we've got the KSP. They, and some of the guys from here in Harlan, are givin' us a hand from now on. They've got some here already and, believe it or not, there's a couple of guys who've even volunteered."

The elevator doors had opened and Noble started pushing the wheelchair down the corridor. "As a matter of fact," he continued in a light tone, "there's a KSP trooper here right now and he'll be with you - well, outside your door – until tomorrow mornin'. And I have a feelin' you, in particular, will be pleased to meet him."

They had turned a corner. Halfway down the corridor, sitting on a chair beside a door, was a KSP trooper, sitting at attention, his campaign hat in his lap. As they approached, the trooper stood.

Noble pulled the wheelchair to a stop. The handsome, tall, dark-haired state trooper with the military crewcut loomed over the seated detective. His dark eyes widened with pleasure as he glanced from Noble to Steve and held out his right hand. "Sheriff." He nodded as they shook hands, and Noble couldn't resist a chuckle at the obvious enthusiasm.

Clearing his throat noisily, Noble gestured between the two men. "Inspector Steve Keller, I'd like you to meet Trooper Daryl Caudill." As Steve's eyes widened and his smile began to build, the sheriff continued, "I think you two might have a lot to talk about."


	13. Chapter 13

With a broad smile, Steve stuck out his right hand. "I am very pleased to meet you, Trooper Caudill," he effused, gripping the proffered hand firmly.

"Ah, I've got to get back to Kearney," Noble said with a twinkle, backing slowly away from the pair. "I'll leave you two to get acquainted."

Both Steve and Caudill looked at the retreating sheriff. "Thank you," Steve said quietly and sincerely, "uh, for what you did today…"

Noble shook his head, cutting him off. "No need, Steve. For the brotherhood, right? I'm just glad things turned out as they did." He looked the younger man squarely in the eyes. "You take care of yourself, and go visit Mike as often as you can, and I'll see you both soon." He turned to Caudill. "Trooper, thank you for today and, ah, well, for everything." He started to head away. "Have a good night, both of you."

"Today?" Steve asked, turning back to Caudill when Noble had disappeared around a corner. "You were there today?"

Caudill shuffled self-consciously. "No, God no. The two great-grandsons wouldn't know who I was, and they didn't, seeing as my partner and I drove them back down here from Frankfort. But my grandfather would've recognized me for sure, and everybody else that was there, from what I heard. It was decided that I make myself scarce."

Steve was nodding. "Yeah, I would think so," he chuckled dryly.

Caudill glanced quickly at the hospital room door behind him. "Listen, ah, Inspector, I'd really –"

"Steve, please, call me Steve," the city detective interrupted him politely.

Caudill smiled and nodded. "All right, Steve, thank you. Look, I really do want to talk to you but, ah, well, there's someone waiting for you in your room. He's been here for awhile."

Steve frowned, pulling his head back slightly. "Do you know who it is?"

The state trooper shook his head. "No idea, but he looks like he has some rank, if you know what I mean." He smiled slightly, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah, I do," Steve said slowly, nodding in agreement. "Thanks." He turned the wheelchair and reached out to push the door open. Caudill beat him to it and held the door while Steve wheeled into the room.

"Jesus, Steve, are you okay?" Captain Rudy Olsen's voice reached his ears before his eyes had time to settle on his superior officer.

Unable to resist a welcoming smile, Steve wheeled himself further into the room as Olsen got up from the guest chair and started towards him, his kindly face contorted with worry. "I'm fine, Rudy, really. It looks a lot worse than it is."

The older man came closer, putting a tentative but gentle hand on his left shoulder. Steve winced involuntarily and Olsen snatched his hand away. "Geez, sorry, Steve. Is, ah… were you hit in the shoulder …?" His voice was hesitant.

Steve smiled quickly, hoping to reassure his boss. "No, Rudy, I'm okay. I took a shot through my upper right arm and another through the calf of my left leg."

"Shit," Olsen mouthed worriedly, glancing down at the younger man's leg. "You in a lot of pain?"

"It's gotten a lot better," Steve replied earnestly, "believe me. I hurt my left shoulder when I hit a tree going down, and it's pretty badly bruised, but I should be able to get around on crutches maybe by tomorrow, we hope."

"That's good, that's good," Olsen mumbled almost absent-mindedly, staring at the inspector with a worried brow and faraway look. "They, ah, they told me what happened, to you and Mike… Geez, Steve, I had no idea… I thought it was just gonna be a quick trip here, you know, pick up the fugitive and get back on the plane… I had no idea…" His voice had almost disappeared.

"Rudy," Steve said sharply, regaining the older man's attention, "it's not your fault, none of this is your fault. How could you have known?"

Olsen had refocused and was staring into Steve's strong green eyes, but he still looked distressed and overwhelmingly guilty. "But Mike, I mean, he's not doing so good is he?"

"Who told you that? Mike's doing okay. He's gonna be fine, it's just gonna take a few days, that's all, same as me." Olsen nodded but didn't say anything. "Rudy," Steve caught his attention again, "I just came from seeing him. They're gonna be moving him into ICU for a couple of days and I'm gonna head back down there in a little while to see him again. I want you to come with me, okay?"

Olsen nodded again, and the younger man could see the rigid posture begin to ease somewhat and that ironic but very familiar grin begin to appear on the older man's lips. "You're both gonna be all right?" he asked, a slight crack in his voice.

Steve smiled warmly and nodded. "Yeah, Captain, we're both going to be fine."

# # # # #

Noble waited for the phone to be answered, staring down the corridor towards ICU.

" _Hello."_

"Hi, honey, it's me. Listen, ah, I might just stay in Harlan overnight, there's some unfinished business I have here."

" _You're worried about those two detectives, aren't you?"_

He smiled; she knew him too well. "Yeah… yeah, I'm still a little worried about what some people might want to do, you know what I mean? I'd just feel a lot better if I could stay here where I know what's goin' on…"

He heard her sigh compassionately. _"They've really gotten to you, haven't they?"_

He snorted a tiny chuckle. "Yeah, they really have… So, is it okay?"

" _You have to ask?"_ He could hear the warmth in her voice and could picture her loving smile. _"You start home first light, and I'll have breakfast waitin' for you by the time you get here, all right?"_

"I love you, you know."

" _You better. Nobody else would put up with you… Stay safe."_

"Good night, honey."

# # # # #

"So where's Devitt? Did you leave him back in Kearney?"

"Devitt?" Olsen asked, surprised. "Roy's not here. What made you think that?"

Taken aback, Steve shook his head almost involuntarily. "I'm not sure. Sheriff Noble said that a couple of guys were coming out here and he mentioned you by name but he couldn't remember the other one, other than it was a lieutenant. I guess I just assumed it was Roy. So who is it?"

"Pierce. Marty Pierce from Narcotics. It was his case originally, right, so I figured he would be the logical one to bring. But you're right, he is in Kearney. He's meeting up with the local police there to get all the details about what went down."

"Well, he's gonna have to wait to see the sheriff. Noble just left; he's been with us all day." Steve paused and his focus turned inward. "He's, ah, he's been unbelievable. He and his men. Mike and I wouldn't be here without them, believe me."

Olsen, who had pulled the guest chair closer to the wheelchair and sat, reached out and gently laid his hand on Steve's forearm. "From what I've heard so far, it was a pretty horrendous experience. I'm just so glad you're both still alive." He saw the younger man swallow heavily and nod, his stare unfocused. "Listen, ah, why don't we get you settled back in the bed and you can begin to tell me all about it. How does that sound?"

Steve met the older man's sympathetic eyes. He knew he was going to have to start talking about it to someone; it might as well be his superior officer. He nodded. "Yeah, that sounds good."

They both stood, and Olsen helped the younger man the few steps to the bed. "Hey, ah, I don't know about you, Steve, but I haven't had anything to eat in quite awhile. You think there's a chance you and I can get some food delivered here? What d'ya say? Are you up to eating something?"

Settling back on the bed, trying not to wince from the pain and the effort, the exhausted inspector realized that he too had eaten nothing since some toast and coffee at breakfast. So much had happened that food had not even crossed his mind, but now that the exchange had been made and Mike was safely back in their hands, the reality of his current situation suddenly hit home. It had been a very long day and he was drained, physically and emotionally.

"Yeah, Rudy, that sounds good. It's been awhile."

"Great," the older man said with a smile and a sudden burst of energy. "I'll go speak to the officer at the door, maybe he can tell me how to go about it." He started for the door then turned back. "Anything special you wanna eat?"

With a warm smile, Steve shook his head. "At this point, I don't care."

"Well, ya can't go wrong with pizza, even in Kentucky I'm thinking. What do you say?"

"Sounds good. Oh, by the way, the trooper at the door? His name is Caudill."

"Thanks," Olsen said with a nod as he opened the door and disappeared into the corridor.

Steve leaned back against the pillows with a sigh; he knew the name wouldn't resonate with the captain just yet - he still had a lot of learn about the families in this part of Kentucky. His smile disappeared. The relief that there was now someone of a higher rank to take over, allowing him to concentrate on getting both Mike and himself healthy and home again, was tempered with the reality that he actually had to start coming to terms with the events of the past few days.

# # # # #

Noble pulled the metal chair to the corner of the room and sat. He rubbed a hand over his tired eyes and tried to stifle a yawn. He knew he probably wouldn't be able to stay awake all night but at least he was there, and he hoped his mere presence was enough of a deterrent.

He stared at the man on the bed, at the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and thought back to earlier that day and those terrifying few moments when he had watched the body being dragged from the truck and thought the lieutenant was dead.

He shook his head in silent wonderment, intrigued by this unlikely pair who shared such an unconventional bond.

# # # # #

Steve tossed the crust of the last piece back into the cardboard pizza box; he had been hungrier than he realized. He picked up the cup of Coke, took a sip through the straw, then put it back on the overbed and pushed it away.

Olsen, leaning back in the guest chair, his soda in his hand, was staring at him with a furrowed brow. "God, Steve, I can't believe what you guys went through. It's a miracle you and Mike survived. Where the hell did they get all that firepower? Damnit, we don't even have anything like that."

"I never want to come up against it again, I can tell you that. Considering the number of rounds they fired into the car, I'm still amazed that only Mike was hit and it wasn't worse than it was. It felt like the whole car was being torn apart." Steve's voice had gone quiet. "I've never been in combat, but I think that may have been close…"

Olsen nodded sympathetically. A Normandy veteran, who usually bristled when he heard people compare their experiences to combat, understood exactly what the young man was saying. From everything he had learned about the ambush so far, the analogy was not a stretch.

He let the silence lengthen between them, then ventured gently, "Rutter… "

At the mention of the name, Steve's eyes suddenly misted and he swallowed with a sharp gasp. "He didn't deserve to die, Rudy, he really didn't," he began slowly, running a hand over his face. "Turns out he had a hell of lot more integrity than a lot of people I know. Mike and I owe him our lives, we really do." He paused. "I almost think that if he didn't have to bother about us, if he was on his own, he'd still be alive. He had more than one chance to get away, to leave us, to leave me…and he didn't… I think he was really worried about Mike… and he didn't want to leave me, even after the bullets started flying… he could've been long gone… and he'd still be alive..."

Olsen let him finish and they sat quietly. It was going to take a lot longer for this young man to recover mentally and emotionally than physically, he knew, and he would do everything in his power to see to it that the path would be a smooth one.

Their respite was abruptly interrupted by a loud knock on the door, which was immediately pushed open and, to Steve's surprise, Noble entered quickly, pushing a wheelchair. Caudill was behind him holding the door open. "Steve –!" Noble began sharply, then pulled up when he noticed the presence of the older man. Choosing to ignore the visitor, he looked back at Steve, pushing the chair close to the bed. "Steve, you've gotta come with me. Now. Hurry!"

His brow furrowed in worry, Steve glanced briefly at Olsen. "Sheriff, what's going on?"

"Get in the chair," Noble urged quickly again. "I've got to get you down to ICU. It's Mike. He's starting to wake up, but he's confused and agitated; he thinks you're dead."


	14. Chapter 14

He could hear the commotion from the cubicle before he even got there, and his heart began to pound. As Noble let go of the wheelchair at the ICU entrance, an unfamiliar sound reached his ears: his partner's highly distressed and slurred voice. "No… I don' b'lieve you… ee'd be eere… ee's dead, I know ee is… I know ee is…" Pushing the wheels of the chair even harder, he closed the gap quickly and turned into the small room.

With his heart in his mouth, Noble stood at the entrance, watching the chair and its worried young occupant disappear through the doorway; he knew it was vital that this be a personal and private reunion between the partners. "Mike!" he could hear Steve call out as he turned and left the restricted area, heading back to the waiting room where he had left Olsen and Caudill.

Mike was thrashing around, trying to get up, the doctor's hand on his left shoulder in an attempt to settle him down and keep him on the bed, when Steve came into view, repeating his partner's name loudly once again. At the sound of his voice, Mike stopped moving. Doctor O'Neil glanced quickly over his shoulder, a relieved smile appearing instantly, and turned back to his patient. "He's here. I told you, he's all right and he's here." O'Neil backed away from the bed as Steve wheeled himself closer.

"Mike," he said again, calmer this time, as he stopped the chair and snapped the brake levers down. "Mike, it's me, I'm here, I'm okay," he began the reassuring litany as he pushed himself up.

He could see his partner's wide eyes staring at him as he rose into view. The older man was breathing heavily through his open mouth, and he looked both terrified and devastated. Smiling, trying to keep his voice calm and even, he leaned over the bed, reaching out with his left hand to stroke his partner's still stubbled cheek. "I'm okay, I'm okay, Mike, it's all right, I'm okay," he kept repeating, soothingly, and watched the fear in the eyes very slowly begin to recede, to be replaced by tears.

Peripherally Steve saw Mike's left hand, which had been gripping the side rail of the bed, rise slowly until the fingers gently touched the side of his face.

"I thought you were dead." Mike's voice was strained and almost inaudible, and he started to tremble. He was barely blinking.

Shaking his head and trying to keep smiling, Steve leaned even closer. "No, I'm okay, I really am. It _is_ me, Mike, I'm really here. It's really me." Careful to avoid the heavily bandaged right shoulder and immobilized arm, he laid his hand on Mike's left shoulder, like the doctor had done.

Continuing to stare, as if not believing what he was seeing, the tears brightening his eyes, Mike put his hand on the back of the young man's neck and pulled him closer. They stared at each other for several long moments until Mike closed his eyes, his entire body shuddering, taking deep gulps of air as the relief overwhelmed him.

It hadn't even occurred to Steve that Mike might think he was dead, and watching the reaction that misconception had produced was overwhelming. After all they had been through, he was being torn apart inside watching Mike come to grips with the almost paralyzing reality that his partner was alive and well and standing in front of him. It took everything he had at the moment to remain calm enough to help the wounded, distraught man who meant so much to him.

Sitting up slowly when Mike released his grip on the back of his neck, Steve pulled himself onto the edge of the bed, hoping Mike wouldn't notice the grimace of pain, his left hand remaining on his partner's shoulder.

Starting to get himself under control, Mike's breaths began to slow but he kept his eyes closed, feeling the gentle touch of his partner's hand. He opened his eyes slowly to see the grinning features of his best friend hovering over him, and he caught his breath with a small gasp, the tears stinging his eyes. "I thought you were dead," he said again, unsteadily.

Steve nodded and his smile wavered. "I know," he said, his voice quiet and gentle, "I thought you were too." They stared at each other for several long seconds then Steve grinned again and leaned back. "I'm glad you're awake. You were scaring me there for awhile." He had managed to lace his voice with a tinge of lightness, and relaxed when he saw his partner smile briefly then sober again.

"I heard shots. I thought it was you." The confusion was rapidly disappearing, as was the agitation. The Mike he knew and loved was coming back fast.

Steve nodded, the smile dissipating. "I heard them too. We haven't found out what they were yet."

Mike's eyes had traveled down from Steve's face to what he could see of the wheelchair and suddenly his eyes went dark and his brow furrowed in concern. "But you _were_ hurt…" he said forcefully.

Reluctantly, Steve nodded, tilting his head slightly. "I'm okay, believe me, all right? I'm okay. I'm not hurt that bad –"

"Where?" Mike cut him off, and Steve could see the fear rise in eyes again.

With a heavy sigh, and laying a gentle hand once more on his partner's shoulder, Steve said quietly and simply, "Right upper arm and left calf."

"Twice?" Mike asked, alarmed.

Nodding slightly, Steve increased the pressure of his hand on Mike's shoulder, trying to reassure him that he was all right. "I wasn't hurt as badly as you were."

Blinking slowly, trying to stay focused, Mike took a deep breath. "What happened?"

Shaking his head slowly, Steve sat back slightly and lifted his hand. He didn't want to get into details; he was pretty sure Mike wasn't ready to hear about Rutter just yet. "Not now. We'll talk about all this later, when you're better. Not now, okay?" He smiled. "I'm on the mend, now we've got to get you there too." Mike held his stare for several long seconds then nodded. "How's the shoulder?"

Even in his debilitated state, Mike knew Steve was trying to shift the attention away from himself, and he smiled as reassuringly as he could. "It's okay," he said vaguely, knowing his attempt at nonchalance was not lost on his young friend.

Steve stared at him, then nodded once. "Unh-hunh, right, I'll ask the doc to up your meds." He smiled and shook his head slightly, and Mike did the same. They knew each other too well.

In the hallway, Doctor O'Neil grinned, relaxing. He turned quickly and started for the ICU entrance; there was something he needed to do and the sooner he got started, the sooner it could be brought into play.

# # # # #

About twenty minutes later, O'Neil stepped into the small cubicle once again and approached the far side of the bed. He glanced at Steve and grinned before turning his attention to Mike. "Lieutenant, how are you doing?"

Though exhausted and sore, Mike managed a smile as he turned his head slowly in the physician's direction. "Much better, doc, thanks." He glanced at his partner and his eyes lit up again.

O'Neil nodded, including Steve in his relieved look. "Listen, ah, I know it's late in the day, but there's no need to keep you in ICU anymore, now that you're improving. So we're gonna move you upstairs to a private room." As he spoke, two orderlies entered the cubicle and crossed to the bed. O'Neil looked at Steve. "Inspector, if you could give us a couple of minutes, we're gonna 'free' your partner here and take him upstairs. If you want to wait for us in the corridor…?" He nodded towards the door.

Frowning, confused by the sudden decision to have Mike moved, Steve slid off the bed carefully and lowered himself back onto the wheelchair. He pushed himself out into the corridor and he could hear O'Neil talking softly to Mike as he made his way to the ICU entrance and exited.

Olsen, Noble and Caudill stood quickly when they saw him and crossed the waiting room to join him. "How's Mike?" Olsen asked, concern so evident in his voice.

"Ah, he's okay, he's good, he was just confused when he was waking up, but he's okay." He glanced over his shoulder. "They're moving him upstairs."

"Now?" Noble asked, surprised. "It's rather late in the day for somethin' like that, isn't it?" He looked from Steve to Olsen, eyebrows raised.

Steve shrugged. "Well, that's what I thought, but O'Neil seems to think it's the right thing to do. He asked me to wait out here."

"That's odd," Noble said quietly as he took a step towards the ICU double doors, his brows knit in apprehension. Steve and Olsen exchanged baffled looks and the younger man managed to shrug slightly. Everyone looked a little worried.

A young male orderly came down the hall and approached Steve. "Inspector Keller?" he asked politely.

"Yes," Steve answered tentatively.

"Dr. O'Neil asked me to help you back to your room." He gestured towards the push handles of the wheelchair. "Do you mind?"

With another quick, confused glance at the three men standing around him, Steve shook his head. "Not at all, go right ahead."

The orderly turned the chair and started towards the elevators. The others remained behind, not sure exactly what was going on.

It was a silent ride up in the elevator and Steve was taken straight to his room. The strain of the long and taxing day was beginning to exact a toll, both physical and emotional, from the exhausted and injured young man. Finally horizontal, Steve laid back on the slightly raised bed with a tired sigh and closed his eyes. As confused as he was about what was going on with Mike, he was more than a little relieved to be back in the hospital gown and lying down, as uncharacteristic as that may be.

It seemed he had just gotten settled when the orderly that had brought him up re-entered the room, joined by a second. With a broad smile, the first orderly went straight to the small bedside cabinet and began to pick up the few personal effects that were there: the shaving kit from his suitcase, his watch, wallet and badge. The second orderly went to the small closet and removed Steve's suitcase; the items were carefully placed inside, as were the clothes that Steve had been wearing that day.

"Excuse me," Steve began quietly, gesturing at the suitcase when the first orderly looked at him. "Uh, what's going on?"

"Oh, you're being moved to another room for the night. Sorry, I thought Dr. O'Neil had told you."

Shaking his head, continuing to frown, Steve said tentatively, "Um, no." Deciding to keep his concerns to himself for the moment, he allowed them to put the now filled suitcase on the end of the bed, which was then wheeled out of the room and down the corridor.

They rounded a corner then slowed down in front of an open door. The gurney was pushed past the door, then turned to enter the room footboard end first, which Steve knew right away wasn't normal. But the second the gurney cleared the door, he realized what was going on, and a relieved and grateful smile lit his face.

Already in the room, still hooked up to the antibiotic and IPN IV lines, a sleeping Mike Stone lay on the hospital bed near the far wall. The room wasn't big, and there was just enough space for the two gurneys to be placed side by side with adequate access around them.

The bed Steve was on was pushed alongside the first one, touching sides, head to tail. One of the orderlies removed the suitcase and Steve could hear the closet door open and close. Two sets of footfalls exited the room, followed almost immediately by another set entering. "I thought you two could use a little time together," Doctor O'Neil's voice filled the air behind him. "You need the rest and he needs the company." There was a soft, gentle chuckle as O'Neil crossed to the door. "Get a good night's sleep, Steve. You both deserve it." The heavy wooden door closed soundlessly.

Mike's bed was almost fully raised, and he looked comfortable lying against the pillows stacked against the side rail. His left hand was at his side and, with no real effort at all, Steve reached out, picked it up and squeezed. Mike stirred and his head came up slightly. His eyes opened a slit, then widened a little more when he recognized his young partner so near. A warm and happy smile surfaced under the heavily lidded eyes.

Steve returned the smile, shaking Mike's hand slightly. "Go back to sleep. I'm not going anywhere," he said softly. He watched as very slowly his partner's smile disappeared, the blue eyes gradually closing. He leaned back against his own pillows and closed his own eyes. Sleep came quickly for them both.

 _ **Sorry, folks, but RL is getting way too busy right now and it might be a day or two till my next chapter. A thousand apologies to those who appreciate the daily updates - but I want to make sure I don't shortchange my readers or myself with this story.**_


	15. Chapter 15

**Guess what? I got another one done! But don't get spoiled...**

"Geez, I've never seen anything like this." Captain Rudy Olsen exhaled loudly as he walked slowly around the dark green Galaxie. "I'm amazed _any_ of them got out alive, let along all of them." He pulled his eyes away from the bullet-riddled sedan and looked up at Noble. "How many slugs did you say they pulled out of it?"

"Forty-seven," the sheriff replied, his eyes on the vehicle, shaking his head.

The San Francisco detective moved closer to the back door and peered through the open window. "And Mike and Rutter were in the back seat?"

"Unh-hunh." Noble gestured with his head towards the far side. "Nine bullets penetrated the front seats into the back, one of them hitting Mike. Some of the others went straight through and took out the back window. There were five in the upholstery in the roof." He paused. "They took another seventeen out of the engine block. The rest were in the trunk."

Olsen pulled his head out of the window and looked down. The left back tire was completely flat and a large tear was visible on the sidewall.

"We think one of the last bullets fired nicked the tire and it stayed inflated for a couple of minutes until it blew. They must have been going at a hell of a clip; I'm surprised Steve managed to keep it on the road."

Olsen shook his head and smiled warmly. "He's one hell of a driver, let me tell you. If he couldn't do it, nobody could." He joined the sheriff and they both continued to stare at the totaled car, still marveling at the good luck.

Noble looked at the older man sideways. He nodded towards the Galaxie. "It's hard to believe surviving that was just the _beginning_ of their problems, hunh?"

Olsen dropped his head, his hands in his pants pockets. He exhaled loudly. "Sheriff, you don't know this, but I've always thought Mike Stone was born with horseshoes up his ass. He's one of the luckiest men I've ever met." He snorted with ironic mirth and looked at the small town lawman. "Oh, he's had his share of grief, don't get me wrong, but someone up there," he glanced quickly towards the heavens, "they must really like him a lot 'cause I've seen him come out of some very dicey situations smelling like a rose. And not only him, but everyone around him."

When Noble laughed, nodding in agreement, Olsen continued, "Is there a word for the opposite of a 'Jonah'? Seriously, he's one of those guys you want _with_ you in a tough situation and you wanta stick close to."

"You've known him a long time?"

"Over twenty-five years," Olsen said, still chuckling. "I was four years ahead of him at the academy. We were on the same shift when we worked foot patrol and I got to know him then."

Noble looked at the San Francisco cop sideways. "How come he never made captain? I'd a thought he would've been a perfect candidate."

Olsen chuckled ironically. "A captaincy's been dangled in front of him a lot a times over the years. He always turns it down. He prefers the streets, so… that's where he still is. He loves it."

Nodding his head in agreement, Noble looked back at the Galaxie. "I can understand that." He paused as they both studied the wreck again. "So, ah, you want to see where all this started?" he asked, and a suddenly sobered Olsen nodded.

# # # # #

The muted sounds somewhere far away penetrated his sluggish brain slowly and eventually he managed to open his eyes. He realized he was alone in a hospital room and gradually the events of the previous night filtered back into his lethargic brain. He remembered seeing Steve lying in the bed alongside his own, facing him; his hand being held; and the warm sense of security he felt emanating from his partner.

He tried to sit up but the pain in his right shoulder forced him back down with a small gasp. He reached up with his left hand, trying to find some relief by applying pressure to his collarbone, but nothing seemed to help. He laid back on the pillow, breathing rapidly and shallowly in an attempt to get the pain under control.

The wooden door opened quickly and a nurse entered. He vaguely noticed her bright smile as she moved around the bed closer to his IV line. He knew she was talking to him but he couldn't make out any of the words. He was trying to lie still, blinking slowly, hoping the agony in his shoulder would subside. He could see her fill a syringe and plunge the needle into the injection port of the IV line and he heard her calm and soothing words.

The pain started to recede and he began to relax. He knew she was standing over him, watching him. His breaths started to come further apart and he felt her hand on his forehead. He saw her smile encouragingly and watched as she left the room.

He closed his eyes and sank even deeper into the pillows. He wasn't sure how long he'd been lying there when he heard the door slam opened. Blinking slowly, trying to attain some measure of focus, he raised his head in time to see Steve, grinning from ear to ear, enter the room on crutches.

"Hey, hey," the younger man chuckled as he approached the stool near the bed and wobbled to a stop, "you're awake. I was hoping you'd be by now." Hopping on his right leg, he removed the wooden crutches from under his arms and set them on the floor as he half-collapsed onto the stool with a laugh. "You _are_ awake, right?"

Smiling slightly as he tried to revive himself, Mike managed a nod, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs. "I think so," he said thickly, trying to chuckle.

"They let me out," Steve smiled, "I've been sprung."

Mike's smile disappeared quickly. "What? What do you mean?"

"I mean I no longer have to stay here. I'm out." Seeing Mike's suddenly furrowed brow and alarmed expression, he continued quickly, "Don't worry, I'm not going to be off by myself, I'm moving into a motel with Rudy. There's one just outside the town limits. He's going to be my baby-sitter."

"Rudy?" Mike said quizzically. "Rudy's here?"

"Oh yeah, I forgot, you were kinda out of it yesterday. Yeah, Rudy and Lieutenant Pierce, from Narcotics?"

"Yeah, I know who Marty Pierce is," Mike said as sharply as he could muster, with an almost peeved frown, "for about twenty years."

Ignoring the retort, but pleased to see a bit of the old Mike Stone making his presence felt, Steve swallowed a grin. "Well, they both arrived yesterday. They're both in Kearney getting briefed on everything that happened then Rudy's coming back here. And now he's my new roommate and bodyguard."

"Rudy hasn't been a street cop in decades," Mike snorted.

Steve chuckled. "Well, he's gonna get a crash course, I guess, 'cause he and I are sharing a room."

Mike managed a snort. "Lucky you. But remember, he's not nearly as accommodating as I am."

Steve froze, staring at his partner with raised eyebrows. "Okay, now I know you're feeling better, especially if you actually believe what you just said."

The older man smirked then let his smile disappeared. "Steve…" he said quietly, his tone turned serious.

The younger man raised his chin and stared his partner down. "I'm gonna be okay, all right? I can look after myself, even with those." He pointed down at the crutches on the floor, not taking his eyes from Mike's. "It's you we've gotta get out of here now, right?"

Mike held his stare for several seconds then smiled. "Right."

Steve looked around the room quickly. "So, has Doctor O'Neil been in to talk to you yet?"

"No, I just woke up."

"Ah, well, that operation you need on your collarbone? They've set it up for tomorrow. They're flying a doctor in from Lexington in the morning so by tomorrow afternoon, you should finally be on the mend. You'll need a couple more days to recover and then…" he looked into Mike's eyes and smiled, "and then we can go home."

Mike mirrored the look. "Home," he murmured, and there was so much longing in that one syllable that Steve suddenly found it hard to breath.

They stared at each other for a few beats then Steve leaned forward slightly. He had decided he needed to let Mike know what had happened after they had split up, what had happened to Rutter. "Mike, there's something I have to tell you," he began gently, "about what happened to Donny Lee and I after we left you."

"When you got shot," Mike stated firmly, and Steve nodded.

"Yeah." He paused, trying to figure out how he was going to word what he had to say.

"He's dead, isn't he?" Mike said softly, staring into his partner's eyes.

Neither said anything, neither moved, then Steve nodded slightly. "How did you know?"

The corners of Mike's mouth turned up and he sighed, dropping his head. "Because nobody's mentioned his name and nobody's said anything about him." He looked up and met Steve's eyes again. "He was killed when you were shot, right?"

Shaking his head slightly, awed as always by his partner's perspicacity, Steve answered almost inaudibly, "Yeah. I don't know how much you know yet, but the Scobies, they caught up to us using bloodhounds."

"Donny Lee said they'd use dogs; so he was right, wasn't he?" Mike's comment was rhetorical but Steve nodded anyway.

"We'd heard shots earlier, about an hour earlier. I thought they'd come from where you were hiding but Donny Lee told me they weren't. I wasn't sure if I believed him, but I didn't have a choice."

"That must have been the shots I heard too."

Nodding, Steve continued, "Then we heard the dogs. We took off as fast as we could but by then we were pretty spent…" He paused, and Mike stared at his downturned face and faraway look. Steve put his left hand on his right bicep. "I got hit first, in the arm. It knocked me down and into a tree, that's how I hurt my left shoulder… Donny Lee got me up and running again… we hadn't gone very far when he got hit in the back…" He looked up at his partner and his eyes were bright. "They had sniper rifles, Mike. We didn't have a chance…" He felt Mike's left hand on the back of his neck and that wonderfully familiar squeeze.

After several seconds of silence, Mike asked gently, "Did he suffer?"

"No," Steve shook his head slowly, "no, I think it was instant… at least I hope it was."

Mike nodded, closing his eyes briefly. "How, ah, how did you get away?"

Steve looked down and took a deep breath. "Sheriff Noble and the KSP. They'd caught up with us because of the bloodhounds, they were easy to follow." He smiled quickly, remembering Noble's 'lecture'. "The, ah, the KSP troopers, they were trained snipers. One of 'em took out the guy who was drawing a bead on me… " His voice has faded away and he inhaled shakily, reliving the moment. He felt Mike's hand tighten on his neck.

After several long seconds, Steve looked at his partner again and a small sad smile lit his face. "He never should have died, Mike, not for what he did. I know he was dealing drugs, I know that, but he didn't deserve to die, not that way. Not after what he did for the both of us."

"He saved my life, that's for sure," Mike said softly, nodding slightly. "But from what you said, he died an honourable man, didn't he? There's a lot to be said for that, in the end." He watched the younger man nod as their eyes locked for a beat. Then he took his hand away and laid back. "But I'm really glad you're still here," he said quietly with a tiny smile.

Steve mirrored the look. "Me too." He took a deep breath. "So," he said quietly, "you up to talking about what happened to you after we left you behind?"

Shifting slightly, trying to suppress a wince as pain shot through his shoulder once again, Mike glanced down at the sheet covering him, waited a few seconds then looked up and smiled. "Yeah, yeah," he nodded.

With a reassuring nod and a smile of his own, Steve reached for the bedside phone. "Good. Sheriff Noble, Rudy and a sergeant from the KSP asked if they could stop by and talk to you about what happened. They want to talk to me too. You think you're strong enough to do that right now?"

Mike hesitated for a beat then nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I'm okay."

Steve smiled. "Great. So I tell you what, I'll get the hospital staff to bring you some breakfast and then I'll round up everybody else and we'll get started, okay?"


	16. Chapter 16

A little over two hours later, three chairs were pulled close to the side of Mike's hospital bed. Olsen, Noble and KSP Sergeant Jim Pearson were now in attendance, the first two having arrived back from Kearney and their visits to the two 'crime scenes' along the country road: the ambush site, and the ditch where the Galaxie had come to rest after the blown tire.

Steve was sitting at the foot of the bed, facing his partner, his bandaged left leg on the edge of the bed; he had slid his crutches out of the way underneath.

Mike and Olsen had shared a subdued but warm reunion, the captain truly gratified to see his old friend looking better than anticipated after what he had seen. Mike was happy to have someone with a higher rank around to make any necessary decisions, but he was also just glad to have a familiar face with them.

After introductions were made, and the newcomers assured that Mike was feeling well enough to participate, Sergeant Pearson cleared his throat lightly and began. "Lieutenant Stone, you're aware, of course, that we will need to take formal statements from both you and Inspector Keller here, but right now we just need to get an informal take on what happened to you to decide if we want to pursue any charges. I'm sure you understand what I mean." The KSP officer had a pleasant southern twang that was instantly comforting.

Mike smiled and nodded. "Yes, Sergeant, I understand completely. And it's Mike, please. And I can tell you right now that as far as I am concerned, no charges need to be laid against anybody in regards to anything that happened to me after the inspector and I separated."

Three sets of eyes widened, while Steve sat up a little straighter and stared at his partner. After a beat of stunned hesitation, the younger man said, "Mike, come on, are you serious? They dragged your unconscious body out of the back of one of their pick-ups!"

Mike turned warm, impassive eyes towards him, a gentle smile playing over his lips. "That may be, but nothing that they… the father and his sons… did to me was responsible for that."

"You're talkin' J.B. here, am I right?" Pearson offered tentatively, and Mike looked at him and nodded.

"That's right, the old man." Mike looked back at his partner and there was calmness about him that made the younger man relax and lean back, brows knit. Smiling enigmatically, Mike turned to the KSP sergeant. "You want to know what I remember, right? Well, here goes." He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. "I didn't know how much time had gone by after Steve and Rutter left me – it was too dark to see my watch and I know I was drifting in and out – but I'm sure it was at least an hour before I heard the dogs.

"That scared me. I figured it was just a matter to time till they found me, hidden or not. I mean, not only did they have my scent, I'm pretty sure they could smell the blood as well." He shook his head, his stare suddenly far away. "They got so close I could hear the dogs panting. I could hear voices yelling at each other… I'm sure the dogs were just yards from me… but all of a sudden they started moving further away… I couldn't understand it…" He looked up and met the sergeant's stare, as if seeking an answer.

"The dogs weren't after you, Mike," he said with a gentle smile. "I'm pretty sure they scented on Rutter, not you or Steve. Your scents were just…ancillary. Their primary target was Rutter and these are good tracking dogs, _great_ tracking dogs. They'll never go off the primary target to go after a secondary one. You were lucky."

Mike had been nodding while the trooper spoke; it all made perfect sense. "Yeah, I kinda got that feeling when they started to disappear…" He paused, and looked towards the end of the bed at his partner, and everyone could see him swallow. "I'm not sure how much later it was when I heard a shot. It was too far away to figure out which direction it was coming from, or even how far away it was. Hell, I wasn't even sure it _was_ a shot. But I knew if it was, it had to be a rifle; a handgun wouldn't carry that far. I know I also thought it must have come from where Steve and Rutter were." He paused and swallowed hard again, looking down. "It scared the hell out of me. I thought that whoever was after us had found them."

Steve reached out and laid a hand on Mike's leg and, when the older man looked up, he met the troubled blue eyes with a comforting smile.

Mike smiled back briefly, then took a deep breath, looked down and continued. "About thirty seconds after that, I heard the second shot. That pretty well convinced me they'd found Steve and Rutter, and that they were both probably dead." Mike's voice cracked slightly and Steve's grip on his leg tightened.

Nobody moved. The sympathetic silence lengthened as Mike struggled to regain his composure. He took a deep breath and threw his head back, then winced and grabbed for his right shoulder, pressing his hand against the bandage over his broken collarbone.

The others leaned forward, exchanging worried glances. "Mike, are you sure you want to continue? We can do this some other time…" Olsen began.

"No, Rudy, I'm okay, really," Mike hissed through a grimace, opening his eyes and shaking his head. "I just have to remember not to do that."

"They've scheduled the operation for tomorrow," Steve informed the others, and both Olsen and Pearson nodded in relief. Noble's brow furrowed and he glanced down; Steve caught the look and frowned curiously.

The pain receding, Mike leaned back and let his left hand drop back to the bed. He glanced at the others, smiled reassuringly and said, "Uh, where was I? Oh, yeah," he cocked his head and blew out a breath, "anyway, uh, I know I just laid there after that second shot, trying to hear something, anything, another shot maybe, I don't know, that would let me know… that maybe… just maybe it wasn't over, you know?" His voice had become so quiet they had to lean closer to hear him. He brought his left hand up to cover his mouth, breathing heavily through his nose, reliving the unbearable sense of loss he had felt at that moment.

Steve rubbed his hand on Mike's leg, leaning forward as far as possible. "I'm still here, Mike," he whispered, knowing only his partner could hear him. He saw his best friend close his eyes, and smile behind his hand. Then, with a quiet snort of relief, he looked up, took his hand away from his mouth and, as their eyes locked, he smiled. They could feel the others in the room relax and sit back.

"We, ah, we found out what those shots were," Pearson offered quietly into the uneasy silence, and four pairs of eyes turned in his direction. Self-consciously, he glanced at them all before clearing his throat. "Uh, well, those Scobies, they've never been ones to let a good opportunity slip through their fingers. We've got some pretty big boars in these hills, and they make mighty fine eatin'. Those dogs got a bunch of boars all rattled up and thrashing around in the bush, and the Scobies decided, I guess, to pick a couple of 'em off. Guess they were reckonin' to go back after they'd finished with you guys and pick up the carcasses and take 'em home."

"Boars?" Steve sounded awed. "You mean, really big pigs?"

Pearson shook his head and chuckled. "Ah, no, not pigs, Inspector – ah, sorry, Steve. Not pigs, boars. It's like the difference between a house cat and a tiger. You don't want to run into one of those big bastards without a gun, believe me. They're supposed to be plant eaters, but there's tales in these hills that say otherwise, if you know what I mean."

Steve stared at Pearson in astonishment, then looked from a slack-jawed Olsen back to Mike, who snorted in amazement as well. "Well, I'm really glad that's what it was. Wish I knew that at the time," he said quietly, and Steve tightened his grip again.

Noble, who had been watching the exchange about Kentucky wildlife with amusement, now looked down, waited a beat then asked gently. "So what happened next, Mike?"

"Next? Hunh, well, I have no idea what time it was when I was woken up. I guess I passed out again, or just fell asleep, I'm not sure. My shoulder'd gone numb, and I'm still not sure if that was a good thing or not. I definitely couldn't feel it anymore, couldn't use my arm. But the next thing I remember was something hitting me in the chest, not hard, just enough to wake me up. I guess they were poking me to see if I was still alive."

"Who was?" Olsen asked.

Mike looked at him and smiled. "Well, I didn't know it at the time, but it was one of the Caudill sons." Steve, Noble and Pearson smiled knowingly, but Olsen, who had just been given a very cursory overview of the 'Four Families' by the Kearney sheriff had yet to commit the names to memory and was at a loss.

"Do you know which one?" Pearson asked facetiously, not really expecting an answer but also not expecting Mike's almost jovial response.

"I never did get that figured out," he said with a quiet chuckle. "I know a cop is supposed to notice the subtle things in a person's appearance, but geez, they really all looked the same to me. The only real difference I could see was what they were wearing."

Pearson laughed knowingly, rocking back in the chair slightly. "I know exactly what you mean. You almost need a detailed scorecard. But try me – what was he wearing that was different from the others?"

Mike thought about it for a second. "He had denim overalls and a red… oh whadayacallit, Steve? Bandana. A red bandana around his neck. And a straw cowboy hat." He froze and cocked his head. "Wait a minute, I remember something else. He had a scar through his right eyebrow and he was missing the tip of the ring finger on his right hand."

"Good eye," Noble said with a grin. "That would be Charlie, the second born. You were lucky; he's not as aggressive as the rest of his brothers. He's actually what ya might call a thinker. But for God's sake never say that to his face; he'll slice you up a bit. Not enough to kill ya, mind; just enough to let ya know ya made a mistake."

Mike and Steve seemed to absorb this new information in stride; Olsen, on the other hand, stared at the sheriff in wide-eyed horror.

"Anyway," Mike continued, ignoring Olsen's perplexity, "I could tell that the sun was starting to come up so I knew it was morning. And this… big… mountain man was standing over me poking me in the chest with the barrel of a shotgun. I was aching all over and my shoulder was throbbing so bad I could hardly see. I think he asked me who I was, but I couldn't make out what he was saying. I really couldn't.

"There was someone else with him," he glanced up at Pearson with a wry smile. "Had to have been a brother, he was a carbon copy. Anyway, they pulled me up and said something else I couldn't understand, but I got the distinct impression they wanted me to go with them." He shrugged. "So I did."

"They made you walk?" Steve asked with a frown, once again tightening his grip on his partner's leg.

Nodding, the older man continued. "Yeah, they sure did. Hell of a thing though, we weren't all that far from a road. Well, not a real road, mind you, but a track through the brush wide enough for a pick-up truck. Which turned out to be a good thing 'cause I don't think I could've walked any further. As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure I passed out the second I crawled onto the back of the truck."

Suddenly realizing his mouth was dry, Mike reached for the water pitcher on the nightstand. Springing to his feet, Noble got to the pitcher first, poured some into the glass and held it out for Mike to take, which he did with a nod of thanks. Finished drinking, he handed the glass back to Noble then leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes.

Steve watched him worriedly while the others exchanged concerned glances. After several seconds, Mike opened his eyes and sat up again. "I'm okay," he assured them, taking a quick glance around and noticing the furrowed brows. He managed a small smile. "Where was I again? Oh yeah, well, anyway, I don't remember anything about the ride in the pick-up truck but I'm sure it must've been a bumpy one. Come to think of it, that could've been why I passed out. I have no idea.

"But I do remember what happened next," he said with raised eyebrows and a dry chuckle. "When I finally woke up again I was lying on a wooden floor in someone's house looking up at the barrels of a shotgun being held in my face by a very big, very old man. He said his name was J.B. Caudill and then he asked me why he shouldn't kill me."


	17. Chapter 17

Mike had dropped his head, then looked up at Steve and the others with a wry smile. "You know, a shotgun in the face really helps to focus your mind, pain or no pain." He nodded slowly. "It focused mine."

"What did you say?" Olsen asked curiously.

Mike snorted. "Well, to be perfectly honest, I don't remember my exact words but whatever it was, I'm still here so I think he believed me." He felt Steve's hand on his leg, a quick rub and a pat. Looking at Olsen, he said with a shrug, "I think I told him I was a San Francisco police officer and I didn't have any business with him or his family. I'm pretty sure I told I him I had my badge in my right pocket but that I couldn't get it out. He got one of the sons to do it." He looked at Noble. "Do you know where it is?"

Noble shook his head with a facial shrug. "Sorry, Mike, it wasn't on you when we got you back."

Mike nodded dejectedly. "Damn it. Well, I'm not surprised."

Noble glanced at Steve. "We, ah, we got your guns, both of 'em. Yours too, Steve. We'll hold 'em till you leave. We've got ya well guarded, and if anything were to happen we just wanta make sure nobody can say it was you that started it, ya know what I mean? In these parts, you just never know, so we have to be extra careful."

Steve glanced worriedly at his partner, but Mike had been watching Noble and now he just nodded. "I understand, Eli. It's not a problem. You know these people better then we do, that's for sure."

Olsen, who had listened to all this with deepening consternation, glanced with a furrowed brow from his lieutenant to the sheriff but held his tongue. He definitely trusted his colleague and if Mike trusted Noble, then he did too.

Steve gestured towards the bedtable. "You did have your wallet on you," he informed his partner with a small smile. "It's in there. Everything's still in it."

Mike snorted. "Well, J.B. sorta said he'd leave me alone, and I guess he did." His look was far away.

Pearson leaned forward a bit. "What did he say to you?"

Mike looked up and almost laughed. "Well, after he looked at my badge, he pretty well cut me out of the conversation. I know I was having trouble staying awake, and I'm not sure but I think my shoulder was starting to bleed again. They got me up and sat me on a chair, and I guess I was spending most of the time trying not to fall off.

"But I do remember a bunch of them having an argument about… grandsons… or something like that?" He looked to Noble for confirmation and the sheriff nodded, glancing at the KSP sergeant.

"We'd picked up a couple of his great-grandsons in Frankfort a couple a days earlier," Pearson offered, and Mike nodded discerningly.

"So that was it, hunh? I was going to be used in a prisoner swap. I'd been wondering about that." Mike chuckled dryly to himself. "I figured it had to be something like that, 'cause there was really no reason to keep me alive, at least that's how I felt at the time." He sobered and looked at his partner, inhaling deeply before saying quietly, "All the fight had gone out of me, I guess, after those shots…"

Steve swallowed heavily, biting his lower lip and tightening his grip on Mike's leg. He smiled warmly and, with the eye those sitting in the chairs couldn't see, he winked.

Mike's face lit up and he dropped his eyes and laughed quietly. Shaking his head resignedly, he glanced at Olsen and the others and continued, "Fellas, like I said before, I don't remember too much of my time with the Caudills; I guess I was drifting in and out a lot. Which, believe me, was a good thing, both physically and emotionally.

"So much had happened in such a short time… it was a little overwhelming. And I really didn't think I was going to get out of there alive."

"That's understandable," Olsen mumbled, still attempting to come to terms with the ordeal his men had been through.

"I do remember one thing though, very vividly," Mike offered quietly, and his gaze suddenly became very far away. He blinked quickly a couple of times and looked at Noble. "Does J.B. have a brother?"

The sheriff leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "A few of 'em, all younger. You talkin' about one in particular?"

Mike nodded. "I don't remember hearing a name, but he was a lot shorter than J.B. and a lot stockier. He had the same white beard, and he was wearing denim overalls and a baseball cap with a Confederate flag on it."

Noble smiled in spite of himself. "Yeah, ah, that would be Dexter; they call him 'Shorty'." He shook his head and exhaled loudly. "He's not J.B., that's for sure. He's always been a bit of a wild hair. As much as everybody lives in fear of J.B., at least he _thinks_ before he acts. Shorty acts before he thinks. And from what I've heard, he hates anybody that ain't a Caudill."

Pearson, who had been watching Noble as he spoke, turned to Mike and nodded. "Eli's absolutely right about that. We've never been able to prove it, of course, but rumor has it that Shorty's responsible for at least five murders in the past ten or twelve years. But nobody's ever come forward and we don't have anything concrete so…." He shrugged with a helpless inevitability.

"Murders? Are you talking about within the Four Families?" Steve asked.

Pearson nodded. "Yep, that's why we can't get to him – nobody says anything and it all stays in the hollers. Makes for some challenging policing, let me tell ya."

Olsen, who had been listening closely to all this, looked at his two detectives. "I'll never complain about our crime rate again," he said with a dry laugh, shaking his head. Both Mike and Steve smiled at him with raised eyebrows.

"Mike," Noble ventured cautiously, "ah, why did you ask about Dexter?"

The older detective looked at the sheriff and released a deep breath before saying, "Well, I'm not really sure when it happened, but I was having one of my more lucid moments. I was still sitting in the chair, I remember that, and I heard something about somebody making a phone call – I guess maybe to arrange a meet, but I have no idea."

When both Steve and Noble nodded, Mike smiled briefly and continued, "Well, I guess Dexter wasn't too happy about that. I think he wanted to kill me right then and there. He was stalking around the room with this shotgun in his hands and all I can remember is I was so out of it I don't think I cared if he shot me or not." He felt Steve's hand tighten once more on his leg.

"I do remember J.B. yelling 'It's done, it's over!' And I saw… Shorty storm across the room and then he turned quickly and started back at me… I saw the butt of the shotgun come up and he slammed it into me… I'm pretty sure it was into my right shoulder… the last thing I saw was this blinding light and then… then I woke up here…" Mike was looking down, staring at the sheets on the bed when he voice trailed off.

Nobody moved for several long seconds then Pearson cleared his throat lightly and shifted forward in the chair. "Thanks, Lieutenant," he began quietly, "I know that couldn't have been easy, but it was important for us to hear."

Mike looked up at the KSP officer and nodded. "I just want to make sure, Sergeant –"

"Jim, please, Mike, call me Jim," Pearson interrupted gently, with a genial smile.

Mike mirrored his look, nodding. "You're right, Jim, of course. Thank you. I, ah, I just want to make sure that nobody thinks I was mistreated by the Caudills, I mean, you know, other than Shorty, and I'm not even a hundred percent sure about that. But J.B. and his sons?" He shook his head with a facial shrug. "I'm still here, I'm still alive. They didn't have to do that. I know he needed me to trade for his great-grandsons, I have no illusions about that. But there was nothing stopping him from making my situation a whole hell of a lot worse." He paused, and inhaled deeply. "I just don't want to make this any more difficult for everybody that lives around here than it already is."

Pearson nodded. "Understood, Mike. And thank you." Noble was also nodding. "Look, ah, we better get out of here and let you get some rest. We've taken up enough of your time." He stood up and the others followed. Taking a step towards the bed, he held out his right hand. "Lieutenant, thank you. I know how difficult these past few days have been and I guarantee you, the next few are going to be a lot easier." Mike held out his left hand and they shook awkwardly, both grinning.

"Steve," Pearson said, turning to the younger detective and shaking his hand as well, "thank you too, and I'll be talking to you soon, to get your statement. Maybe tomorrow?"

Steve nodded. "Sounds good."

With a genial smile, Pearson started to turn away. "Both of you, get well soon, okay?" He strode towards the door as Noble and Olsen got closer to the bed.

"See you soon, Mike," Noble said with a smile, a quick pat on Mike's arm and a glance to Steve before turning away as well.

"I, ah, I'm gonna meet up with Marty and go over what he's got. I'll see you two later," Olsen said awkwardly, still feeling profoundly guilty.

"Sure, Rudy," Mike responded genially, trying to let the captain off the hook but knowing he was failing gloriously. He glanced at Steve and their wide-eyed shared look confirmed they were both aware of Olsen's continuing self-imposed culpability.

The hospital room door had barely closed behind the three visitors when Steve slid off the bed and bent down to retrieve the crutches.

"Where are you going?" Mike asked.

As Steve straightened up and put the crutch pads under his arms, he glanced back at the bed. "I'll be right back," he said as he crossed quickly to the door and maneuvered it open.

"Eli," Steve called out softly as he glimpsed the three police officers halfway to the elevators. The sheriff turned; the others stopped. "Can I speak to you for a minute?"

Noble glanced guiltily down at the hat in his hands then said to the others. "Give me a second. I'll meet you guys in the lobby, okay?" He started back towards Steve as Olsen and Pearson continued towards the elevators.

Steve waited till Noble got closer before he said quietly, "Eli, I, ah, I noticed you looked a little concerned when I told you about Mike's surgery tomorrow. Anything I should know about?"

The Kearney sheriff looked away and exhaled loudly. "Steve, remember ya askin' me about meetin' with the Rutters?"

The detective nodded.

"Well, I was gonna call ya later, when you were back in your motel room." He paused and fidgeted nervously. "Look, I got in touch with them, though channels and, ah, well, he's being buried tomorrow mornin'. And I got word that Donny Lee's father - Robert E. Lee Rutter? Well, he's agreed to see ya after the service is over."

Steve pulled his head back slightly and stared at Noble. "Where is he being buried?"

"The, ah, the family has a graveyard of their own, somewhere in the holler. We have no idea where. But the old man got word to me that he'd meet with ya afterwards. So I asked Lonny if he was willing to drive ya up the holler to meet the family, and he said he would."

"So… what's the problem?"

"Well, I kinda thought ya might want to be here for Mike when he goes in for the surgery?"

With a glance behind him at the hospital door, Steve hesitated, grateful for the concern. "What time did you set the meeting with the Rutters up for?"

"One o'clock."

"Mike's surgery is scheduled for noon. They've told us it could take a couple of hours and then he'll spend some time in Recovery before he gets back to his room." He paused and looked Noble. "How long will it take us to get to the Rutters?"

Noble shrugged. "Over an hour, I would think, they're almost all the way to the 75. But Lonny knows these roads better'n anyone I know and he'll be drivin' lights and sirens. He can get ya there and back as fast as is humanly possible, I can guarantee ya."

"I want to do it. Don't worry, I'll tell Mike. We have no secrets, he and I, and he'll understand, believe me. He took the news of Rutter's death pretty hard. He believes Donny Lee saved his life too. If he knows I'm going to talk to Donny Lee's parents, he'll want me to go, to say to them all the things he wishes he could say."

Noble smiled. The integrity of these city detectives was both heartening and overwhelming. "I'll tell Lonny. He'll be here at 11 and you guys can just leave when ya think it's right." He began to turn away and looked back. "Say goodbye to Mike for me again, will ya?"

Steve smiled warmly and he nodded. "You bet. Thanks, Sheriff."

Noble smiled all the way to the elevator.


	18. Chapter 18

Deputy Lonny Carruthers looked across the front seat as his passenger settled in. He had turned on the flashing lights but opted to use the siren only when necessary; not in town, and just to pass traffic on the county roads. Otherwise, he reasoned, the constant clamor would make conversation impossible.

"So Mike's okay with you takin' off on him?" he asked with a grin.

Steve chuckled. "Well, like he said, it's not like I'm performing the operation. All I'd be doing was sitting in the waiting room, so I might as well make myself useful, he told me."

Carruthers studied the detective's profile. "You're not worried about him, are ya?"

Steve glanced a little guiltily at the Kearney cop, feeling a bit caught out. "Nah," he shook his head a little too vigorously, "I know he's in good hands. He'll be fine." But Carruthers smiled to himself when he saw the city cop steal a quick look at his watch.

"Ya spent the morning with him?"

"Yeah, we had breakfast together. He wasn't allowed much, but I did get to bring him some ice cream with fresh berries. It was really good," Steve said with a chuckle.

"Blackberries and blueberries?"

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"It's the right time a year for 'em, and it don' get any better than wild berries, lemme tell ya."

"That's for sure."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot to ask – so, ah, how was your night in the motel room with your captain? Olsen, is it?"

Steve laughed. "Ah, yeah, Olsen." He took a deep breath and chuckled again. "Well, um, how shall I put this? Ah, let's just say, he's no Mike."

"And that means…?"

"Well, ay-yi, ah," the young detective chuckled again, "well, let's just say Mike and I have shared sleeping spaces enough times over the years that we've kind of, I guess, gotten used to each other…"

"Like an old married couple," Carruthers finished flatly with an amused insouciance.

Steve shot him a look. "Well, I wouldn't go _that_ far but, okay, for the sake of argument, and stretching the point a bit – a lot – maybe, but holy crap, Rudy's another kettle of fish altogether."

Chuckling, Carruthers asked, "In what way?"

"Well, Mike _is_ a little anal about stuff – you know, keeping his suitcase neat and laying out his shaving kit and, my god, when he says he's getting up at a certain time, he gets up at precisely that time, if not before. And he snores, but he's easy to stop – you just hit him or yell at him and he'll turn on his side and that's that.

"But Rudy, on the other hand. His suitcase looks like it exploded, his toiletries are all over the sink, and he snores like a bear. And no matter how many times I yell at him, he doesn't respond. I didn't hit him – it just didn't feel right hitting my boss's boss, kinda, so I spent most of the night with the pillow over my head. It didn't help."

Carruthers was chuckling silently and now he let it out. "Well, if ya want to put your head back and catch some z's, go right ahead. We've got about another 45 minutes ahead of us, at least."

"No, it's okay, I'm not in much of a mood right now for sleeping. But maybe we could stop at a drug store or something on the way back and I could pick up some earplugs?"

"You got it," Carruthers laughed as he pushed the Caprice as fast as he dared down the uneven asphalt on the county road.

# # # # #

Sergeant Jim Pearson and another KSP officer stood beside their cruisers on the edge of the football field behind the high school. The whup-whup-whup of rotor blades slicing the air grew louder as the dark green Bell Iroquois helicopter came into view over the trees and settled lightly onto the grass at mid-field. The police officers lowered their heads, holding their hats in place, in the gusts of dirt and sand kicked up from the spinning blades.

As the roar of the engine died and the blades slowed down, the side door opened and a man in a dark suit, carrying a large leather case, appeared. Pearson and his colleague sprinted forward and, as the trooper reached for the case, Pearson helped the black-haired South Asian surgeon down from the Huey. They nodded at each other cordially as all three hurried across the grass towards the waiting cruisers.

Within seconds, they were on their way. The pilot stepped out of the cockpit, unzipped the top of his flightsuit, fished a pack of cigarettes out of a pocket and lit up.

# # # # #

The Caprice easily slid past a beige Oldsmobile and back into the lane, and Carruthers snapped off the siren.

Steve glanced over before saying, "So, ah, Lonny, anything you can tell me about the Rutters before we get there, so I know what to expect, sort of…?"

The Kearney deputy smiled, keeping his eyes on the road. "Sure, not a problem. So, I think the sheriff already told ya the basics, right? That the Rutters are one a the four what ya might call 'big' families around here – the families that are involved in the 'shine business?"

"Yeah."

"Good, well, they've all been runnin' 'shine forever, it seems, but lately some a the younger ones've started gettin' into drugs – dope an' coke – an' that's been puttin' a strain on the, ah… status quo, I guess ya could call it. For the most part, local law enforcement turns a blind eye to the 'shinin' 'cause basically it's the only way for most families to make a livin'. The mines are played out, or almost, an' it costs too many lives… either in accidents like cave-ins an' floods, or black lung. Whichever, it's gonna shorten your life." He looked across the seat. "I come from a family of coal miners; that's why I went into law enforcement," he chuckled dryly.

"Now the Rutters seem to have gotten into drugs a little more than the other three, which has kinda turned the others against 'em even more. If there was animosity before, it got worse once dope an' coke started to make an appearance in the hollers. Some kind of undrawn line was crossed, an' the fuedin' escalated."

"Eli told us about the arson last year where a grandmother and two babies died? But he never said who did it? Do you know?"

Carruthers shook his head. "Nope. The victims were members a the King family. None of the other families took credit for it an' the Kings didn't allow arson investigators inta the holler so, well, our hands were tied."

"The King family," Steve mused. "We haven't heard from them in all this."

"And we won't. The Kings are the… Flying Dutchman, I guess you could say, around here. Talked about, rarely seen an' the subject of legend an' speculation. An' I can pretty well guarantee that none of us'll see hide nor hair of 'em. I've never interacted with a single King family member my entire career."

Steve snorted slightly, shaking his head. "So how does it feel to be policing in a place where you don't have access to certain areas and… people… and – I don't know, where Mike and I come from, we have the right to go anywhere we want and talk to anyone we want, especially with a warrant, but here…?"

Carruthers smiled, nodding. "Well, it's always been that way here, so I guess it boils down to what you're used to, right? That's why it's so hard for an outsider to come in here with a desire to _change things_. It's not gonna work."

"Is that what happened to that sheriff who was killed back in the early '60's?"

"Yep, sure was. They brought him in from Philadelphia, can you believe that? He had no clue. They haven't done anything that bone-headed since."

There was a pause in the conversation as Carruthers pulled out to pass another car.

"That's what makes Sheriff Noble so special. He's an outsider – well, he's a Kentuckian but from the other end a the state – but he knew enough to just sit back an' listen an' absorb all of it before he tried to do any actual policing. An' so far he's doin' a great job. All the townsfolk love 'em an' Alfie an' I've got ourselves a pretty great boss." Carruthers paused and looked over at his colleague. "Hey, ah, from what I can tell, you seem to have yourself a pretty great boss too, am I right?"

Steve looked at him. "You mean Mike?" Carruthers nodded and Steve laughed. "Yeah, you're right there. I lucked out, that's for sure." Almost unconsciously, he glanced at his watch once again; the operation was scheduled to start in twenty minutes. "Ah, so, the Rutters," he said quickly, changing the subject, "what can you tell me about them?"

Carruthers hesitated, shooting the San Francisco cop another look before replying, "Well, just like the Caudills, the Rutters have a patriarch. All four families do but only the Caudills and Kings have the great-grandfather still running things. Both of 'em are in their 90's but still rule with an iron fist.

"Now the Rutter patriarch is Jefferson Davis Rutter – he's the eldest son of the oldest generation." He saw Steve's head snap towards him and he cut off the comment he knew was coming with a chuckle. "Yeah, I know, Donny Lee's father is Robert E. Lee, one of J.D.'s four sons, and Donny Lee has… _had_ uncles named Richard Stoddart Ewell, Nathan Bedford Forrest, Simon Bolivar Buckner, Leonidas Polk and Edmund Kirby Smith Rutter. I don't know how… _informed_ you are about the Civil War, but all of those names are of either prominent Confederate or Kentucky generals. The Rutters are nothing if not patriotic," he said with a laugh.

"Wow," Steve muttered, impressed. "How do you remember all that?

Carruthers laughed heartily. "Believe me, ya grow up around here, ya just know this stuff. It's in the blood." They shared the moment, Steve shaking his head in amazement.

"So, chances are today yer gonna meet some, if not all, a the brothers. They'll've gathered for the funeral, no doubt, so be prepared to be severely outnumbered. But ol' J.D., he rules with a pretty firm hand. They won't do anything that he doesn't approve of an' as it's him that agreed to this meeting, you'll be okay.

"Now, J.D. is a widower, but Robert E.'s wife, Donny Lee's mother, is still alive. Her name is Ruth-Ellen. Don't know anything about her. Donny Lee had three brothers and four sisters, all of who are married an' have kids. Donny Lee was the youngest, by a long shot. They'll all be there, of course, as well as all the cousins and their families, so expect to be a little intimidated. But again, everyone kowtows to J.D. so, you stay on his good side, you're golden."

Steve swallowed hard and nodded. His palms had begun to sweat and he rubbed them together. He tried to blame the heat but the air conditioning was on and he could actually see goosebumps on his forearms below the rolled up sleeves.

# # # # #

Dr. Patel was leaning forward, staring at the x-rays on the lightbox. He inhaled deeply and turned to Dr. O'Neil, frowning. "Well, this is worse than I had hoped."

The Harlan doctor's eyebrows rose. "So what does that mean?" he asked anxiously.

Patel smiled reassuringly. "Relax, Paul, it just means it's going to take me longer than I had anticipated. But it's not hopeless. What's the motto the Corps of Engineers used in World War Two? ' _The difficult we do immediately; the impossible takes a little longer.'_ Well, that's what we have here."

When O'Neil relaxed, Patel slapped him on the arm. "Let's get to work, shall we? We have a San Francisco police detective we have to get back home."


	19. Chapter 19

The blue and white Caprice turned off the county road then, after an hour of bouncing along the pot-holed dirt track, crawled to a stop in front of an old large wooden house with a wrap-around porch. If it had been painted at one time, there was no sign of it now; the horizontal wooden slats were a dead grey-brown, pockmarked with sporadic dirty white patches. The porch railing boasted the occasional post; one column was completely missing. A torn screendoor hung crookedly by one hinge.

The roof was only partially shingled; the red brick chimney stuck out at a strange angle. A couch, two half-stuffed armchairs and several metal kitchen chairs were scattered around the veranda, a number of them covered with dirty blankets and sheets. Mud covered children's toys littered the dirt lawn, as did unrecognizable pieces of clothing and household items like bowls and cutlery.

There were several derelict outbuildings nearby, the same drab colour as the house, most without doors. Three rusted out pick-up trucks had almost disappeared into the tall grass. A late model powder blue Lincoln Continental sat on four cinder blocks, the front window cracked and concaved.

At the sound of the Caprice, the screen door was pushed open all the way by a large man with a dark beard who stared menacingly at the car then turned his head back towards the house. He was soon joined by several other men of a similar age, build and overall look.

Carruthers shifted the police cruiser into Park and turned off the engine. From the corner of his eye he could see Steve staring through the windshield. Resisting the urge to reach across with an encouraging pat on the arm and leaving the keys in the ignition, he opened the door and got out.

By then there were about a dozen silent men on the porch and he could feel each and every eye boring into him. With a quick, professional nod to the man he recognized as J.D. Rutter, he crossed quickly around the back of the car, reaching the passenger side just as Steve opened the door.

Carruthers opened the back door and removed the wooden crutches. As Steve pulled himself out, hopping on his right leg, Carruthers handed the crutches over and Steve got himself set. "Let me do the talking right now," the Kearney cop said under his breath and he saw the quick nod from the city detective.

As Steve took a couple of steps away from the car, Carruthers slammed the door then turned towards the house. With a big friendly smile, he approached the porch steps. "Mr. Rutter," he directed his attention to the man up front, "I'm Deputy Carruthers from the Kearney Police Department, and this is Inspector Steve Keller from the San Francisco Police Department."

Steve had made his way up behind the small town cop and, as he was introduced, nodded with a subdued smile. The reason for this visit was still foremost in his mind, and he hoped that the requisite show of restrained respect would help his cause.

No one moved, then the man that Steve assumed was J.D. Rutter looked in his direction and inclined his head slightly. His dark eyes sliding smoothly back towards Carruthers, he said in a sonorous voice, "We agreed to meet with the inspector and the inspector only."

Carruthers swallowed heavily and there was a slight hesitation before he nodded. "Of course, Mr. Rutter, I understand. I'll wait in the car." He turned back towards the Caprice in Steve's direction so that their eyes met, and in the brief interaction the San Francisco cop could read the apology in deputy's eyes.

Rutter watched as Carruthers got back behind the wheel before he shifted his dark eyes to the stranger. Steve's stare hadn't left Rutter's face. "Boys," Rutter said without moving, and two tall younger men who had been standing near the door crossed the porch quickly and down the steps. Before he could react, the crutches were taken from under Steve's arms, and he was lifted slightly and carefully by his upper arms and carried up the stairs.

On the porch, his crutches were handed back and the two men disappeared into the house. Getting the crutches back under his arms and regaining his slightly ruffled composure, Steve nodded at Rutter, who grunted and re-entered the house. Steve followed, nodding to another young man who held the door open for him.

As slovenly and ill kept as the outside was, the inside of the large wooden house was the exact opposite. Though cluttered, it was clean and neat, the walls painted a lively red, the sun streaming through the large windows brightening and warming the spacious living room. Two large spotless couches lined one wall, three heavily upholstered armchairs facing them around an impressive wooden coffee table.

The walls were lined with photos and framed posters, and three stuffed stag heads, with majestic racks, looked out over the room. The aroma of baked apples and strong coffee hung in the air, in sharp contrast to what Steve could only assume was the acrid smell of moonshine that had assaulted him when he opened the car door.

He had followed J.D. to the centre of the room where the older man turned and politely gestured towards a large armchair. Steve glanced from Rutter to the chair and back, nodded and sat awkwardly. As he bent to place the crutches on the floor beside the chair, they were taken out of his hands and he looked up to see a boy of about twelve holding them. With a shy smile, the boy nodded vigorously and Steve smiled and sat back. The boy crossed the room and leaned the crutches against the wall near the door.

The family patriarch stood over his visitor, his expression unreadable. Finally he said, "We know why you're here, Mister Keller. I believe you want to talk to my son Robert."

Stunned by the impeccable diction of the imposing man before him, all his rash assumptions having vanished in an instant, Steve swallowed involuntarily before stammering, "Ah, yes, sir."

J.D. took a step back and was replaced by a man who Steve would have recognized without an introduction. Robert E. Lee Rutter was a slightly taller, older and heavier version of his son, and the resemblance briefly took the young cop's breath away; Donald Lee's father looked like a man completely devastated.

Steve started to get up when Robert approached but the grieving father waved him back down. "No, please, sit, please," he said softly. One of the many other young men in room pushed another armchair closer and Robert sat, facing Steve, barely a foot away. The group around them parted slightly and a frail, middle-aged woman, her haunted eyes standing out starkly against her pale skin and unkempt light-red hair, appeared. She sat on the arm of Robert's chair and he reached out to take one of her hands.

The woman smiled at Steve kindly. "You were with my Donny Lee when he was killed?" she asked hesitantly in a thin, reedy voice. Her stricken eyes bored into him.

Steve nodded. "Yes, ma'am, I was."

"Did he, um, did he…?" she tried to get out but her voice was trembling too much and her husband tightened his grip on her hand.

"Did he suffer?" Robert asked softly, and she nodded.

"Um, ah, no, ma'am, no, he was, ah, he was killed instantly," Steve said as firmly and confidently as he could, surprised that this was their first question. But then he realized that they had most likely been wondering about that since the moment they'd learned that their youngest son was dead. If, in some small way, he could help them get through this horrendous ordeal, he would do whatever he could. Except lie.

Ruth-Anne closed her eyes. "Thank the Lord," she breathed and her husband squeezed her hand again, glancing up at her lovingly. Then he leaned forward again.

"Inspector –"

"Please call me Steve, Mr. Rutter," he interrupted gently, with a smile, and was gratified to see the older man briefly smile back.

"Steve," he said with a grateful nod, "Sheriff Noble told us that it was the Scobies that killed our boy." His voice wavered and he cleared his throat. "And we know that's got nothin' to do with you." He took a deep unsteady breath. "What I'd like to know…" He glanced at his wife. "What _we'd_ like to know is, well, just everythin' that happened that night. We just need to know… if that's okay with you?" His voice was so soft that Steve could barely hear him.

"Of course," Steve nodded, "of course." He glanced at Ruth-Anne, hoping he could help assuage their guilt, knowing he was going to break their hearts. He cleared his throat. "Well, ah, my partner and I were on our way to Louisville to take your son back to San Francisco."

Over the next few minutes, he very carefully told them about what had happened on the road, about their empty gas tank and the Kearney officers being called back to town on a ruse, about the confrontation on the highway where the Scobies had opened fire on their car, then downplaying his own role in keeping the Galaxie under control when the tire blew.

The entire room was listening, rapt. Steve wasn't sure how many people were actually in the house; truth be told, he didn't have the nerve to look. But nobody was making a sound. A baby had started to cry earlier, but the sound had swiftly disappeared as he heard a faraway door close.

With a heartening smile, he told them about how Donny Lee had skillfully led them through the woods. He paused and glanced down briefly, and when he looked back up, his eyes were shining. "I, ah, I hadn't realized it, but my partner had been shot when we were ambushed on the road. Mike hadn't said anything, but somehow Donny Lee knew and he told me." He cleared his throat. "We, ah, we made the decision to leave Mike behind because he couldn't keep up. Mike's main concern was your son; he wanted me to get Donny Lee to safety, if I could."

Steve stopped; he was still having a hard time dealing with that decision. He was leaning forward with his forearms on his knees and his hands clasped and, as he struggled, Ruth-Anne bent towards him and put a warm hand over his, smiling when his eyes met hers.

"Donny Lee found Mike a place to hide," Steve smiled warmly at the grief-stricken parents, "and he even made a pillow for him out of leaves. Your son had a good heart."

Ruth-Anne sat back, grabbing her husbands hands and for the first time a sob cut through the silence. Everyone waited as she pulled herself together, then she asked quietly, "Your partner… is he going to be all right?"

Steve smiled, grateful for the concern. "Yes, ma'am. He will be. He was shot through the right shoulder," his left hand moved vaguely towards his own. "It broke his collarbone and, as a matter of fact, he's being operated on right now to put it back together." He snapped his left wrist over and glanced at his watch, clearing his throat self-consciously. He felt the warm hand on his own again and looked up into Ruth-Anne's soft eyes.

"He'll be okay," she whispered with a gentle smile, and he nodded thankfully.

"What were they shooting?" Robert asked flatly, staring at Steve unblinkingly.

The city cop knew this question would be coming, if not from Donny Lee's father, then from someone else. He met the dark eyes evenly, hesitating only a fraction before answering quietly, "Seven six two by fifty-one."

Steve watched as Robert inhaled sharply and sat back, his eyes widening. He could hear other breaths being caught around the room and a low murmur wash towards them, quickly silenced by an unseen gesture from the patriarch.

Ruth-Anne, who was staring at her husband and startled by his violent reaction, asked quietly, "Robert, what does that mean?'

He turned to her slowly and licked his dry lips before he spoke. "It's a military sniper bullet, Ruthy. Almost three inches long." He paused and took a deep breath. "The Scobies have military rifles now, don't they?" he asked as his gaze returned to the San Francisco detective.

Steve nodded reluctantly. He knew what this meant; he knew that the Rutters would now be forced to acquire similar firepower, if they had any hope of maintaining their standing in the county. He closed his eyes in frustration at the pointless inevitability.

Once more he felt the warm hand on his and opened his eyes to find Ruth-Anne leaning towards him again. With her eyes sadly bright, she smiled encouragingly. "Please, Steven, please tell us what happened to our son."


	20. Chapter 20

Steve looked at Donny Lee's mother and nodded. "Yes, ma'm." He glanced at Robert Rutter, swallowed and took a deep breath. "After we left my partner behind, we just kept going through the bush. Donny Lee had told me he didn't know exactly where we were or where we were going but he just wanted to get us as far away from the car as possible, then in the morning he would find a way out." He smiled briefly. "I thought that was pretty smart. We'd walked for hours when we heard gunshots way off in the distance. I think we both knew it had to be rifles because they sounded far away. I panicked; I thought whoever was chasing us had found Mike but he assured me the shots didn't come from there." He smiled slightly again. "I believed him."

Both of Rutter's parents were looking at him almost tenderly, and there was an unexpected moistness in Robert's eyes.

Steve hesitated before he continued. "We were resting under some trees when we heard the dogs. Donny Lee'd told Mike and me earlier that we were on Caudill land, but when he heard those dogs, he seemed to know it was the Scobies." Ruth-Anne gasped and her grip on her husband's hand tightened even more. "We, ah, we started to run but we didn't get very far… All I remember is I was knocked off my feet and fell hard against a tree." His right hand drifted up to his left shoulder and his stare became unfocused.

"I guess I was stunned, I couldn't move. Your son was ahead of me… he could have kept going, he could have left me… but he didn't." He looked up into Robert's unblinking eyes. "He didn't. He came back to me. A bullet had passed through my upper right arm and I didn't even know it. He pulled me to my feet and told me keep running, that we had to give them a moving target." He dropped his eyes and took a deep, unsteady breath. "One bullet flew by us, and another hit a tree beside your son. He almost fell but he didn't…"

Steve stopped talking and took several deep breaths before looking up into the dread filled faces of Donald Lee Rutter's parents. "Your son was slightly ahead of me, still leading me through the bush, when he was, ah, he was hit from behind… He, ah, he…" Unable to continue, Steve stared into Robert's eyes. "I firmly believe he was dead before he hit the ground," he said softly.

Ruth-Anne sobbed again and clutched her husband's hands in both her own; Robert continued to stare at the detective, who returned the look evenly and strongly. Eventually Donny Lee's father asked, "How, ah, how did you hurt your leg?"

Steve bit his lower lip and swallowed. "I, ah, I was trying to get to him and, ah, they shot me through my lower leg."

"You were shot twice?" Robert's voice was soft and awed.

"Yes, sir," Steve nodded, then watched in amazement as the older man reached towards him and laid a comforting hand on his forearm.

"How, ah, how did you get away?"

Steve almost smiled. "The KSP and the cops from Kearney were following the Scobies and a couple of them were former military snipers. I was lucky; they got to me in time but it was close… it was very, very close."

Ruth-Anne's sobs were the only sounds in the room. Robert had looked down, and Steve could see his shoulders shaking. He closed his eyes, trying not to let the escalating despair consume him. He knew he had to stay in control, for everybody's sake.

Eventually Donny Lee's father looked at him again, and he was almost overwhelmed to see the gratitude in the heartbroken eyes. Inhaling deeply, Steve said strongly, "Mr. and Mrs. Rutter, there's one more thing." He felt every eye in the room on him once more.

"Before we left him behind, my partner gave me his gun. He told me we'd need it more than he would. When we heard the dogs, I decided to give Donny Lee Mike's gun, in case he could use it to defend himself. I knew he wouldn't use it on me." Steve could feel the tears building in his own eyes. "I trusted your son with my life… and if he were here now, I would do it again."

With a wail of despair, Ruth-Anne Rutter crossed the short distance between the chairs and, aware of Steve's injuries, got on her knees before him and pulled him into her arms. He allowed himself to be enveloped by her, his own arms encircling her gently, his head against her shoulder. Robert Rutter had stood and stepped closer, and Steve felt the older man's hand on the back of his head.

As he took deep shuddering breaths in an attempt to get himself under control, Steve allowed them to continue to show him their gratitude and respect. Eventually he felt Robert's hand leave the back of his head and Ruth-Anne's tight hold loosened, and both he and her husband helped her to her feet. Robert wrapped his arms around her and led her away.

Steve sat back in the armchair, looking down, the fingers of both hands digging into the deep blue upholstery of the arms. He didn't notice when J.D. Rutter crossed the room and loomed over him. Steve looked up and swallowed involuntarily.

The family patriarch seemed almost chastened. He opened his mouth to say something then hesitated, a move that Steve knew was probably highly uncharacteristic. J.D. did not seem to be a man who ever had second thoughts. Finally he got out, "Thank you." And there was a sincerity in his voice that was humbling.

Not sure if he could trust his own voice at first, Steve nodded, blinking quickly. He cleared his throat. "You're welcome, sir."

J.D. almost smiled, then he moved away, nodding at someone across the room.

Steve stayed where he was, trying to slow his pounding heart. Things had seemed to go as well, if not better than, he had hoped. And he was no longer worried about being surrounded by this 'redneck' family. He smiled inwardly; he knew his partner would be both fascinated and relieved. He glanced at his watch again. Hopefully the operation was over by now and Mike was in Recovery. He should be back in his room by the time Steve returned to the hospital.

A teenaged girl approached Steve's chair with a TV tray and, with a shy, almost innocently coquettish way set it down in front of him and moved off. She was followed by another young woman carrying a large serving platter, which she put on another TV tray that had been set up nearby. The platter held several mugs, a pitcher of milk, a bowl of sugar and a pile of spoons. Another woman had followed in her wake, a pot of coffee in each hand.

The first woman handed Steve a mug. As he held it out, the second filled it then gestured for him to help himself to the milk and sugar, which had been moved to within his easy reach. Looking up, he suddenly realized that all the men he could see were now holding mugs and the woman went from one to the other. He smiled warmly.

As he was stirring his coffee, Ruth-Anne reappeared and, with a broad though melancholy smile, placed a china plate holding an enormous piece of apple pie on the tray in front of him. Almost speechless, he looked up into her kind eyes and stammered, "Um, ah, thank you, Mrs. Rutter." He inhaled the wonderfully mouth-watering aroma. "Did you make this?"

She smiled proudly and nodded. "Yes, I did. It's an old family recipe," she whispered with a wink, and he was gratified to see her heartwarming attempt at normality, touched by her grace and hospitality at such a difficult time.

Her husband approached, plates of pie in both hands, and he gestured with his head for his wife to sit in the vacated armchair. She hesitated at first then did as instructed and, as he sat on the arm, he handed one of the plates to her. He looked at Steve, and with a soft, understanding nod, invited him to dig in.

The pastry was extraordinarily light and the baked apples unlike anything he had tasted before, and Steve made sure that Ruth-Anne was aware of this. She beamed at him shyly.

They ate and drank the robust but smooth coffee with a warm and unexpected affinity, and were almost finished when Steve asked hesitantly, "Mr. Rutter, if you don't mind my asking, sir… I'm just curious as to how Donny Lee ended up running drugs all the way out in San Francisco?"

Finished his pie, Robert put the empty plate on the TV tray, deliberately avoiding Steve's eyes, or so it seemed to the younger man. Taking a deep breath, Robert glanced up towards his father before he turned to the city cop.

"Donny Lee wasn't just our youngest, he was… well, different from the others. Donny Lee wanted to see the world outside the holler. Now most of the young'uns around here, they feel the same way, but they wait 'til they have a little more water under their bridges, so to speak, before they give it a try.

"Donny Lee was different. He wanted to leave almost before he could walk. When he was growin' up he would run away from the holler every coupla months an' we'd have to go find him an' drag him back."

Robert's stare turned inward and he almost smiled. "When he was about fifteen, we knew he wasn't gonna be around for long, so I set him down an' I told him, if he was gonna leave an' go somewheres else, he could do so with my blessing but he had to promise me he wouldn't do anything aginst the law."

Steve, who was listening intently, almost smiled at Robert's last statement, something the astute 'hillbilly' caught.

"Yes, I do know we make a livin' runnin' 'shine, but contrary to what you may have heard from someone else, we Rutters do not an' have not ever run drugs. Never have and never will. We don' abide by 'em. No, what I meant about Donny Lee was _him_ gettin' into runnin' drugs or thievin' or somethin' with women or worse. I didn't want him to spend the rest of his life in prison. An' he promised me…. he promised me…" His voice trailed off slowly and sadly.

"Why do you think he came back here now?" Steve asked carefully as he put his now empty pie plate on the tray.

Robert shrugged wearily. "He was scared, an' this is the only place he truly knows… He shouldn't a come home…"

Ruth-Anne's head had lowered as she listened to their conversation and as she sat with the plate in her lap, tears dripped from her downturned face. Robert put an arm around her and pulled her close.

Steve sighed quietly, regretting his decision to bring the conversation back to their deceased son. He dropped his head, staring unfocussed into the middle distance.

Suddenly he felt a hand on his forearm and he looked up to see Robert staring at him sympathetically. "Um, Steve, Ruth-Anne and I were wondering if you'd like to see where Donny Lee is buried?"

His face brightening, almost overwhelmed by the offer, he straightened up and nodded. "Yes. Yes, I would like that very much."

With a smile at his wife, Robert nodded and stood. "Good. Good. Well, ah, you wait right here, we'll bring a truck around. It's too far for you to try to get there on those things," he gestured towards the crutches leaning against the wall by the door, "so we'll put you in a truck an' drive you there. How does that sound?"

Steve smiled gratefully. "That sounds just fine, Mr. Rutter."


	21. Chapter 21

Steve was sitting in the passenger seat of the dark red '62 Ford pick-up, one hand on the open window frame, the other pressed against the seat. He had tried to brace his good right leg against the dashboard but it was too awkward. Despite the slow pace, the truck was bouncing wildly on the very uneven ground.

One of the Rutter grandsons was driving, trying his best to find the smoothest path. It was an impossible task and he kept glancing over at the wincing cop with an almost apologetic smile.

Steve tried to smile back encouragingly, gritting his teeth. As uncomfortable as all this was, it did provide him the opportunity to finally react to the sight that had met his eyes when he'd stepped through the front door onto the porch.

Instinctively he had glanced towards the Kearney patrol car. His eyebrows had climbed rapidly when he caught a glimpse of Deputy Carruthers, still behind the wheel, taking a sip of coffee. The Kearney cop nodded at him as he raised his cup in greeting. Seconds later, he held a dessert plate of pie up to the windshield and as he cut a piece with the fork, grinned happily.

The pick-up truck finally slowed to a stop and was immediately surrounded by the family members that had been walking in its wake. The passenger side door was opened and the crutches, which had been in the bed, were handed to Steve as he turned in the front seat.

Nodding his thanks, Steve slid out of the truck, balanced himself on the crutches, and then began to follow Robert and Ruth-Anne as they led the way. "Careful now," Robert said quietly, "the ground is pretty uneven here."

Steve looked up, surprised to see a large, well-tended family cemetery stretching out before him. In the absence of marble or granite headstones, the Rutter family had opted for the more traditional crosses but each one was large, and immaculately carved and decorated.

As Steve followed Donny Lee's parents through the rows, he tried to glance at the dates on the markers they were passing. He saw two from the 1840's and another dated 1853. He was sure there had to be earlier ones as well. Some of the graves were so old the ground had sunken in.

It wasn't hard to find Donny Lee's; the dirt was still fresh and piled high. There was no cross.

Steve stopped between the grieving parents. Ruth-Anne got down on her knees and put her hands against the dirt. She was trembling but biting her lip trying not to cry.

Robert stood looking down at the final resting site of his youngest son, his hands jammed into his pants pockets. He looked sideways as the California cop.

Steve turned his head slightly to meet his eyes. "This is a beautiful place. He'll rest easy here, Mr. Rutter." He saw Ruth-Anne look up at him and smile.

Robert looked back down at the grave and cleared his throat. "I, ah, I was trying to think of what to put on his cross…" He glanced at Steve. "I know now, 'cause of what you said. I'm gonna put 'An Honorable Man'."

Steve could feel tears sting his eyes as he stared at Robert's profile. "I think that's just perfect. "

# # # # #

Deputy Carruthers glanced across the front seat. Steve was staring out the passenger side window as the Caprice bounced along the dirt track on its way back to the county road. The city detective hadn't said anything since he had gotten into the car almost fifteen minutes earlier.

The small town cop cleared his throat gently and Steve seemed to snap back to the present. He turned his head sharply, glancing at the deputy. "Oh, ah, sorry, Lonny, it's just, ah…." His voice trailed off.

"Hey, don't worry. It, ah, it seemed like you an' the Rutters really got along there, hunh?"

With a self-conscious smile, Steve nodded, his gaze still far away. "Yeah, ah, a hell of a lot more than I would've thought. They were, um, incredibly gracious to me. I never expected that."

"Well, growing up around these parts, you kinda learn real quickly that people are not always what they seem, an' that old adage about 'Never judging a book by it's cover'? Well, I haven't been to many other parts of the country, but I've always found that people tend to think that hill folk are all these lawless, gun-totin', violent anarchists.

"And, you know what? They're right!" He laughed heartily, startling Steve, who stared at him sharply then joined in. "But there's always at least two sides to everything, right? An' there always seems to be a tiny bit of good in almost everyone, if you dig deep enough. I've always found that with the folks around here."

He glanced over at Steve and smiled. "Oh, there's always one or two exceptions, an' it's you an' me that end up havin' to deal with 'em, right? But for the most part, like a wild animal, show a little kindness or faith or whatever ya wanna call it, an' ya can sometimes be surprised by what ya get back."

Steve nodded slowly. "Yeah, I think you just might be right about that. You know, when I first started working with Mike, he used to tell me that all the time. When I'd judge someone too quickly or too harshly without knowing all the facts, he would make me take a step or two back and rethink things. And, you know, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, he was right."

"Yep. Now if we could only get the whole world to do somethin' like that, I think it would be a happier place." Carruthers smiled. "But let's not fool ourselves. Things're goin' to go back to what they always are around here, once this business with you an' Mike and Donny Lee is over an' forgotten. The four families'll go at it again, an' maybe even worse now because of all this. I know things are gonna get a lot worse between the Rutters an' the Scobies, I'll make book on it."

On that sobering thought, Carruthers once more concentrated on the driving. With a heavy sigh, Steve leaned back in the seat and turned to stare out the side window.

Eventually the Caprice turned onto the paved county road, and the trip back to Harlan was made in relative silence.

# # # # #

Steve opened the passenger side door and was hoisting himself to his feet when Carruthers handed him the crutches, then went to the back of the car and opened the trunk. The detective was halfway to the hospital entrance when the cop caught up with him and Steve noticed a cardboard box in the deputy's hands.

"What's that?"

Carruthers beamed. "Oh, ah, it's a little care package the Rutters put together for ya." He lowered the box so Steve could look in. There was a mason jar of clear fluid and what looked like a dinner plate covered with a gingham tea towel.

"What is it?"

"Well, it seems Donny Lee's mother wanted to make sure Mike got a piece a her apple pie, so she sent him one – a whole pie, that is; an' the mason jar is 'shine."

Steve looked at him sharply, brows furrowed. "You're kidding, right?"

Beaming, Carruthers shook his head. "Nope. Pure 'shine. The Rutters make some a the best in the state."

"Isn't it illegal?"

"To sell, yes. The law about making it is still worded kinda funny." He was grinning so broadly that Steve couldn't resist mirroring the look. "Listen, Steve, why don't you an' Mike just, ya know, sample it an' then ya can decide what ya want to do with it. But just the fact that the Rutters gave you a jarful, well, that says a lot to me about what they think of you two, an' they didn't even meet Mike!"

Touched and slightly overwhelmed, Steve just shook his head and continued on towards the entrance. "For God's sake, Lonny, let me tell Mike what it is. He has, how shall I put it, very strict morale guidelines on what he considers 'appropriate' behavior. And I'm not a hundred percent sure what he thinks of moonshine."

Chuckling, Carruthers followed Steve to the entrance. "You got it. I know _all_ about that. Sheriff Noble is kinda the same way."

They had made their way into the hospital and Steve stopped at the counter to find out if Mike was back in his room. He and Carruthers were at the desk when Steve heard his name called and turned to see Olsen coming towards them.

"You were gone a long time," the captain said as he approached.

"Yeah, it, ah, it was quite the day. How's Mike?" Steve asked, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice. Having been out of touch all day had only heightened the sense of foreboding that had niggled in the back of his mind. He couldn't shake the feeling that all was not well.

"Oh, ah, he's back in his room. Come on, I'll take you up there," Olsen said calmly as he turned towards the elevator and the others followed. He'd noticed the cardboard box in the deputy's hands but elected not to comment for the moment.

As they got to the elevators, Dr. O'Neill came around the corner. "Steve!" he called out as he crossed to them quickly. "I was wondering when you were gonna get back. Glad you're here." He glanced at Olsen. "So, did Rudy fill you in?"

"Fill me in?" he asked, sudden concern in his voice as his eyes flashed briefly at the captain then back to the doctor.

"Ah, yeah," O'Neil said hesitantly, "about Mike… Look, he's fine, he's great. He's back in his room and all is well. It, ah, it just took us a little longer to get there."

The elevator door opened and O'Neil gestured them inside. Steve kept his eyes on the doctor's face as they all entered and the doors closed. "What do you mean?"

O'Neil took a deep breath. "Okay, so when, ah, when Dr. Patel got here, he was concerned when he saw the x-rays. He said it was worse than what he was expecting, but then he assured us that although it would take a little longer than first thought, he foresaw nothing that couldn't be fixed.

"So it turned out that an operation that we were expecting to take about an hour, ended up taking close to three. But everything that Dr. Patel wanted to do got done, and when he left," O'Neil glanced at this watch, "about an hour ago, he was more than pleased with the results and he said Mike will make a full recovery with no lasting effects."

The elevator doors opened and O'Neil stood in the open doorway to let everyone exit then fell into step beside Steve as Olsen led the way down the corridor.

"He's really okay?" Steve asked quietly.

O'Neil nodded, smiling. "He's perfectly fine. It's just took us a little longer to get there than we'd hoped, that's all."

"Is he awake?"

The doctor shook his head. "He wasn't the last time I went in. He woke up in Recovery of course, but he was in a lot of pain. We doped him up pretty good and he was awake when he brought him back up here. I think he was trying to stay awake till you got back, but I don't think he made it."

They had arrived at a hospital room door and O'Neil put a hand on Steve's arm. "He'll probably be out until morning. Now I know you're worried, but you don't have to be. So I'll tell you what. Why don't I have a nice big comfy armchair brought up here and you can spend all the time you want with him, even overnight if you want? How does that sound?"

Hearing Robert Rutter's words echoing in his mind, Steve smiled and nodded. "Yeah, I'd like that. Thank you." He looked at Olsen and Carruthers, and they could all tell from his look that he wanted to be alone with his partner right now.

Carruthers, still holding the cardboard box, nodded with a grin. "I'll be waiting out here for you." He hefted the box. "I'll find some place for this."

With Olsen and O'Neil frowning at the box, Steve smiled at Carruthers. "Thanks." To the others he said, "I'll see you later," and pushed open the heavy wooden door.

Balancing on the crutches, Steve stood just inside the room as the door closed quietly behind him. The overhead lights had been turned off and the bed was illuminated only in the dim light of the panel above the headboard.

The head of the bed raised about thirty degrees, Mike lay against a couple of light green pillows, his eyes closed, a sheet pulled up to his waist. Under a light blue hospital gown, his right shoulder was still heavily bandaged, his right arm strapped even tighter across his chest. His left arm was at his side, an IV needle in his forearm.

Hopping on one foot, Steve pulled the metal chair closer to the bed, laying the crutches on the floor near the wall. With a tired but relieved sigh, he sat heavily and leaned towards the bed. He picked up Mike's left hand and squeezed.


	22. Chapter 22

He started to become aware of his surroundings slowly, as if pushing through thick mud. He tried to move his legs but found it too hard and tiring; his right arm seemed immobile and as he tried to lift his left hand, found that it too was encumbered. His eyes opened with reluctance, and he stared unseeing at the green glow above him for several long seconds before he could focus enough to recognize the ceiling.

He felt lethargic and weak, and there was a throbbing pain in his right shoulder that demanded all his attention. Giving up on his right arm, knowing somehow it wasn't going to move, he tried to lift his left hand again then realized it was being held.

He refocused his gaze to the left and finally identified the problem: his partner, in a deep sleep in an overstuffed armchair, was holding fast to his hand. He closed his eyes in relief; he knew that Steve had spent the previous day with the Rutters, paying his respects and hopefully bringing Donny Lee's grieving family some kind of closure. And he had been worried; they didn't know these hill people, and from everything they had experienced in the past few days, anything could have happened.

He was anxious to find out what _had_ taken place, but he also knew how exhausted, both physically and emotionally, his partner would be. This trip had become so much more dangerous than they could have ever imagined, and they were both incredibly lucky to be alive.

But they were. And they were still together.

With a relieved and affectionate smile, tightening his own grip, he sank back into the pillows and stared at his sleeping partner.

# # # # #

He woke with a snort and a start, his eyes snapping open. Briefly disoriented, he sat up quickly then regretted it immediately when his left calf connected solidly with the armchair. He tried, rather unsuccessfully, to stifle his gasp of pain, then looked at the bed guiltily and froze.

Above a warm smile, Mike's calm blue eyes were staring at him. Shaking his head slightly, Steve cocked his head. "How long have you been awake?" he asked with a tiny reassured smile.

Mike's smile grew into a grin. "Awhile," he said gently. "When did you get here?"

With a grateful sigh and trying not to grimace, Steve sat straighter in the chair, still holding his partner's hand. "Last night. You were out of it, so I thought I'd just keep you company."

"You've been here all night?" Mike asked with a frown.

"Unh-hunh," Steve nodded. They held each other's stare for several long seconds then Steve grinned and nodded towards Mike's right shoulder with his chin. "How are you feeling?"

Mike bobbled his head with a resigned half-smile. "You know those cartoons when one of the characters get flattened by a steam roller…" He ended the explanation with a chuckle.

Steve started to laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, I know exactly how you feel." He released Mike's hand and leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face and into his hair.

"How are _you_ feeling?"

Steve cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. "I'm tired, in every way." It was an admission he wouldn't make to just anyone but they had become so close that Mike was family to him, family he could confide in.

Staring at his young friend with worry, Mike reached out to him again. Steve smiled self-consciously and took hold of the older man's hand, reveling in the strong grip. Mike shook his hand and glared into Steve's eyes. "I want you to look after yourself, you hear me. I need you, Steve. I don't mean just right now, because of what's happening now. I mean…" He swallowed heavily, suddenly unable to continue.

Steve's smile built and he shook Mike's hand in return. "I know what you mean," he said quietly. "Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere, and I don't mean just right now either." They stared at each other, both reliving the past few days, both knowing how lucky they had been.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" Mike asked quietly.

Steve smiled broadly, releasing Mike's hand, shaking his head and leaning back. "No, no… well, ah, it hurts, I'm not going to say it doesn't, but it's nothing I can't handle. I know I'm going to be hobbling around for another couple of weeks and that's a pain in the ass, but my arm is doing great, doesn't hurt when I use the crutches, and the bruise on my shoulder is just… colour now, it doesn't hurt anymore. It looks a lot worse than it feels."

Mike continued to stare at him, and after several silent seconds, Steve chuckled and shook his head, squirming in the chair. "Mike, believe me, okay? I'm fine."

His eyes narrowing, the older man finally relaxed and a warm smile touched his lips. "All right, I believe you." He knew Steve wanted to tell him about what had gone on at the Rutters, but he would have to do it at his own pace and in his own time. And the time wasn't right.

Exhaling loudly, Steve chuckled, continuing to shake his head. "Look, ah, I don't know about you but I'm hungry. I didn't have any dinner last night. You want something to eat?"

Mike, who was continuing to stare at the younger man, broadened his smile. "I could eat," he said lightly, and Steve laughed as he reached for the crutches. "No no no, stay there," the older man said, reaching for the nurse's call button laying on the bed close to his left hand. "They've got this handy little device." He pressed the button, raising his eyebrows with a closed-mouth grin.

They both looked towards the door and less than fifteen seconds later it opened and a smiling middle-aged nurse walked into the room. "Lieutenant Stone," she announced as she crossed to the far side of the bed, "I see you're finally awake. How are you feeling?"

Mike had turned his beatific smile her way. "Pretty good, thank you. Um, we were wondering if breakfast is on the menu this morning?" he asked pleasantly, including Steve in his nod.

The nurse glanced at Steve and smiled. "For the Inspector as well? Of course. Now, Lieutenant, Dr. O'Neil asked that we give you some oatmeal and cornbread, and a big glass of milk for breakfast. Is that all right with you?"

Mike's eyebrows had risen and he nodded vigorously. "Sounds wonderful. Thank you."

She turned her beaming smile at the handsome young man on the other side of the bed. "Inspector, would you like that as well?"

Steve grinned and nodded. "Sounds perfect, but could you substitute coffee for the milk, please?"

"You got it," she nodded and started for the door. As she opened it, she turned back. "Dr. O'Neil asked to be notified when you woke up, Lieutenant. He might make it here before your breakfast." Then she was gone.

# # # # #

"All right, Mike, just wait till we get the bed fully elevated, then we'll get you to slide off. Don't worry, we'll keep a hold of you. Then we'll get your robe on and you'll be on your own. How does that sound?"

"That sounds great. I've been horizontal for too long," Mike chuckled as the bed began to rise. He glanced at Rudy Olsen, who was standing near the door.

When the bed stopped moving, O'Neil stepped closer to Mike. "Okay, now this _is_ gonna hurt, there's no getting around that. You'd be surprised how much we rely on that pesky collarbone to do even the most mundane things, like standing up and sitting down," he chuckled.

Mike snorted a laugh as he started to slide his legs over the edge of the bed and straighten up, O'Neil holding his left forearm as he used his stomach muscles to pull himself away from the bed. He gasped in pain and caught his breath, releasing it when he was upright.

"The worst is over," O'Neil said quickly and Mike glanced at him with a quick nod as he started to slide off the bed. The orderly assisting O'Neil put one hand on Mike's back, the other gently on his right elbow and, with the doctor still holding firm to Mike's left forearm, the San Francisco detective's feet made contact with the tile floor and he stood.

Everyone froze for a beat as Mike got his balance, then O'Neil nodded at the orderly and they both let go. Mike released a deeply breath then looked at the doctor, cocked his head and smiled. "You did it."

"Ah, no, I think _you_ did it. Well done," O'Neil said with a chuckle. "Now let's get this robe on you and you're off." The orderly held the light blue hospital robe so Mike could get his left arm in the sleeve, then settled it over his shoulders and did up the cloth belt.

"Now I want you to walk slowly up and the down the corridor, here or anywhere in the hospital you want to go, for as long as you think you can. The only thing stopping you is your own stamina. When you feel yourself getting tired, just come on back here and Gary," he nodded at the orderly, "will page me and we'll get you back in bed. That sound good?"

Mike grinned at him. "That sounds great." He turned carefully to towards the door. "Rudy, you want to go for a walk?"

For the first time, Olsen smiled and he took a step forward. "I'd love to, Mike."

Raising his eyebrows with a facial shrug towards O'Neil, Mike took a few tentative steps towards the captain. Seemingly satisfied he could walk without too much pain, as he passed his superior officer he said jovially, "Don't just stand there – let's go!"

# # # # #

Steve had spent over an hour in the red brick Kearney Police Department building, giving his official statement to Sergeant Jim Pearson of the KSP and Kearney Sheriff Eli Noble. Though he had no official standing, San Francisco Narcotics Lieutenant Martin Pierce was also in attendance.

When they had finished, Steve had gotten in the patrol car with Sheriff Noble and driven across town to the impound lot. The others followed in a KSP cruiser.

Now, balancing on the crutches, grateful that his grip on the handles masked his trembling, Steve was staring at the dark green Galaxie. The others had stayed back several feet, allowing the young detective a few moments to deal with the initial shock of seeing just how severely the vehicle had been destroyed.

He exhaled loudly, and Sheriff Noble stepped silently to his side. "How, ah, how many?" Steve asked.

"Forty-seven," Noble said quietly, and watched as the younger man's eyebrows rose.

Steve moved closer to the back seat; all four doors were open. He bent down and looked inside; the front and back seats were pockmarked with the holes made when the bullets had been removed. Noble knew Steve was looking for the one that had torn through his partner's shoulder.

"How many shots went into the passenger compartment?"

"Fourteen."

Steve took a deep breath. "Which one hit Mike?"

"Ah, well," Noble took a breath then leaned into the back seat and pointed to a hole in the upholstery high up on the right side, "that one."

Nodding his thanks, Steve stepped back. "Can I, ah, can I see some of the slugs?"

Noble glanced at Pearson, and both pairs of eyes widened. Pearson turned towards a young officer hovering nearby and nodded. A few seconds later the young man returned with several evidence bags and he handed one to Pearson.

With another deep breath, Steve took one of the bags from the KSP sergeant. He had seen this type of ammunition before, and he knew it was what the Scobies had used against them, but to have an actual bullet in his hand was a totally different matter. They were longer and heavier then normal revolver bullets, and everything about them screamed death.

"You, ah, you can keep that if you want," Pearson offered tentatively.

Steve stared at the object in the plastic bag in his hand, then nodded slowly and slipped the bag into his pants pocket.

"I'm done," he said quietly as he turned his back and moved away from the car.


	23. Chapter 23

Laying the crutches on the floor, he sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, being careful with his injured left leg. With a deep inhale, he stared at his sleeping partner, trying to control his trembling lower lip, blinking away the tears that had involuntarily sprung to his eyes. His right hand went to his pants pocket and he fingered the spent bullet through the dark brown material.

Taking several deep breaths, getting himself under control, he laid his hand gently on Mike's left shoulder then watched as the older man stirred under his touch and slowly opened his eyes. The initial confusion quickly changed into a warm smile and happy sigh. "Hey," Mike said softly, "when did you get back?"

"Just now," Steve said quietly. "Did you go for a walk?"

Mike nodded, still smiling. "Sure did. Rudy and I walked all over the hospital. I think I wore myself out, but it was sure nice to be out of this bed." His smile slowly disappeared. "What about you? Did you give your statement?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah, yeah. And I, ah, I saw the car…" His voice faded and he looked away, blinking quickly.

Trying not to wince, the older man lifted his head and stared at the downturned face, his brow furrowing. He raised his left hand and gripped Steve's upper arm tightly. "That bad?" he asked softly and his partner nodded slowly, still avoiding his eyes. Mike stared at him for several beats then relaxed his hold and laid his head back to stare at the ceiling. After a deep breath, he asked, "How many -?"

"Forty-seven," Steve cut him off, still looking down.

Mike inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Steve was looking at him and they both smiled self-consciously, almost breathing in tandem. Eventually Mike's hand tightened once more around the younger man's arm and he asked quietly, "What happened yesterday?"

Steve sat up a little straighter and took his hand off his partner's chest. He snorted an ironic laugh then grinned. Shaking his head, he said with a touch of awe in his voice, "It turned out to be an amazing day, Mike, it really did. You want to hear about it now?"

Grinning, Mike took a deep breath and chuckled, "I'm not going anywhere."

Steve bit his lip, then grinned back and laughed. "All right, get comfortable, there's a lot to tell." He stopped and gestured to where he was sitting. "Ah, do you mind…? I can sit in the chair –"

"No no no, stay there," Mike interrupted, "you're not in my way and it's easier to see you." He laughed and let go of Steve's arm. "Besides, you'll have my undivided attention and I won't dare fall asleep in front of you."

Grinning, Steve patted Mike's shoulder lightly again as he settled in. "I almost don't even know where to start…"

"How about the beginning?" Mike offered facetiously with a smirk.

"Ha ha," Steve mouthed, lifting his hand in a pretend smack. Mike laughed and it was such an unexpectedly joyous sound that Steve had to join in, a wonderful but brief respite they both sorely needed.

"Did Lonny drive you there?" Mike asked, his smile lingering, knowing it was good way to get Steve to start talking.

The younger man nodded. "Yeah, yeah, he's a great guy. He really knows his stuff. I learned a lot from him about life in the hollers, about the way people act and think around here, and why. I mean he could teach courses, he's that good."

With a contented smile, knowing the floodgates were about to open, Mike settled back into the pillow and stared at his best friend with was a warm, open smile.

Slowly, but with increasing animation, Steve told of their drive out to the Rutter homestead, his first impression of the house and surroundings that contrasted so vividly to the surprisingly warm and inviting house proper. He spoke in awe of the respect he was shown, not only by Robert and Ruth-Anne, but also by the family patriarch, J.D., who held a benevolent sway over the entire clan.

As Mike listen in rapt fascination, he told of relating their entire experience on the road and in the bush to Donny Lee's devastated parents, how their son had found a place for Mike to hide and how concerned he had been for the wounded man they had to leave behind.

Mike hadn't heard that before, and his breaths became deep and ragged and he closed his eyes. Steve grabbed Mike's left hand and squeezed, waiting until the older man eventually opened his eyes and nodded, ready to hear the rest. Steve smiled at him knowingly, and waited for several long moments before he began again.

He spoke about how he had told the Rutters they had been tracked down by the Scobie dogs, how he himself had been wounded twice and how Donny Lee had refused to leave him, even though he had been given Mike's .38. And about how their son had been shot in the back as he was running, dead before his body hit the ground.

Steve was looking down when he finished talking, and a disconsolate silence lengthened between them. Then Mike squeezed his hand and when Steve looked up, he smiled proudly. Steve smiled back and cleared his throat. "They took me to the cemetery… I felt very honored. I don't think anyone other than family has ever been there…. It, ah, it was very special."

"I bet it was," Mike said softly, squeezing his hand again. "You did good, buddy boy. You did really good. They'll never forget you, you know, forget what you did for them."

"Well, may be, but it was nothing compared to what he did for me, for us." He stared at Mike unsteadily, and the older man nodded. "I'm glad I went, I really am. I think I needed it, and I _know_ they did."

"You needed it too," Mike agreed, nodding. "Regret is one of those emotions that can gnaw at you your entire life. But you won't have to worry about that now. You'll have nothing to regret about all this, believe me."

Steve nodded slowly in agreement. Then suddenly his face brightened. "Oh, ah, I forgot to tell you, they served refreshments."

"Refreshments? What, like lunch?"

"Pie," Steve said with a grin. "Apple pie like I've never had in my life. It was unbelievably delicious." Mike's eyebrows had risen quizzically. "Mrs. Rutter baked it, and I gather she's an amazing cook. They also gave me a great cup of coffee too. And not only me. Lonny was waiting in the car, and when we left for the cemetery – they had to drive me there – he was enjoying a slice of pie and a cup of coffee too."

"You're kidding?"

"Nope."

Mike frowned in amused disbelief. "This is the Rutters you're talking about, right? The folks we were told have notches on their belts and all that?"

Steve cocked his head. "Same bunch. Different lens, I guess. I tell you, I've learned you definitely can't judge these books by their covers, that's for sure. But Lonny was very matter-of-fact about it all. He told me that what the Rutters did for me, the hospitality, that's not beyond the norm for them, but not to let it fool me – they aren't changed, they will not change and, if anything, hostilities between them and the Scobies are going to escalate in the very near future, because of all that's happened in the past few days. Most likely they're waiting for you and me to get outa town, so to speak."

"Why?"

"Well, Lonny thinks that the families are using us as sort of a buffer, a temporary truce. But it won't last."

They both sobered, knowing that with the scale of weapons now available to both sides, it could only get uglier and deadlier. Steve's hand went to his right pocket once more; he couldn't make up his mind whether to show the bullet to Mike or not. The older man had closed his eyes and not seen the move; he took his hand away from his pocket and ran it through his hair.

Mike opened his eyes again and exhaled loudly, smiling suddenly. "Well, you seem to have seen a lot more of Kentucky than I have. I'm not sure if that's a good thing…" he chuckled and shrugged carefully.

Steve laughed, and it was good to hear the sound. "Well, I probably didn't notice as much of it as I should have – my mind was kind of on other things." He stopped, looked down and cleared his throat, and when he looked at Mike again, there was a twinkle in his eyes the older man hadn't seen in days. "Ah, there is one more thing."

Suddenly on alert, Mike managed to push his head a little deeper into the pillow and frowned. "Oh? What would that be?" He sounded skeptical and a little wary.

"Well, Mrs. Rutter sort of sent us a care package," Steve said carefully.

"A care package?"

"Ah, yeah, she didn't want you to feel left out so she sent you an apple pie."

"She did?"

"Yep, a whole pie. Well, I don't think it's _all_ for you…" Steve said quickly, bobbling his head as he rolled his eyes and shrugged.

Mike glanced away, looking very pleased. "Wow, that's pretty nice of her." His eyes snapped back to the younger man. "Where is it?"

"That's a good question," Steve said with a nod, "I'm not really sure. I know Lonny said he'd look after it, but he's not here anymore. I'll ask one of the nurses. I'm sure they'll know." He paused and looked at his partner sideways. "Uh, that wasn't the only thing they sent…"

Mike looked at him suspiciously under a furrowed brow. "It wasn't?"

Steve shook his head, smiling mischievously.

"What is it?"

"It's a… a local treat."

Mike waited for more but when more was not forthcoming, he said slowly, "A _local_ treat?"

Steve raised his eyebrows and nodded vigorously.

"You're not going to tell me, are you?"

With a broad grin, the younger man shook his head.

Mike smiled slyly. "All right," he began slowly, "let's see. Now something that _you_ might call a treat, I might _not_ call a treat. And you seem thrilled about it, so it's probably something borderline illegal."

"What?" Steve gasped with a chuckle, sitting back slightly.

"Gotcha!" Mike grinned, raising his left hand to lightly swat the back of his partner's head.

"Hey," Steve admonished, ducking out of the way, but they were both laughing. It felt good and they reveled in the moment. "All right, Lieutenant, you think you have it figured out? Spill."

Still laughing, Mike leaned back and shook his head. "Well, it could only be one thing – and that would be the thing the Rutters are famous for, am I right?"

Nodding in anticipation, Steve said nothing.

Mike sighed with a smile. "They gave you a bottle of moonshine, didn't they?"

"Ah, well, it's called a jar, not a bottle, and they just call it 'shine, but yeah, you're right."

Mike froze for a split second. "They gave a cop a jar of 'shine?"

"Yep. Ballsy, hunh?"

"Well, that's one word for it." Mike smiled and shook his head.

"So, ah, I couldn't really turn it down, and, actually, they gave it to Lonny to give to me after we'd left. So, ah, what do you think we should do?"

"Well, I'm eating the pie."

"I know that. I mean the 'shine."

"Right, the 'shine." Mike took a deep breath and shrugged. "Well, it would be kind of inhospitable to throw it out, wouldn't it?" he asked slowly.

His face bogusly serious, Steve nodded, brows knit.

"So, I guess that means you and I'll have to, I don't know, sample it at some point…?"

Steve grinned. "I was hoping you'd say that." He sat back, chuckling. It felt good to be able to joke around again.

Taking a deep breath, Steve looked happily at his partner and, as they stared at each other, Mike's smile was slowly replaced by a melancholic frown. He reached out and wrapped his free hand around the younger man's forearm. "I want to go home, Steve," he said with a quiet weariness.

Laying his hand over Mike's and squeezing, he whispered back, "So do I, Mike, so do I."


	24. Chapter 24

They sat in silence for several long seconds, lost in their own thoughts. Steve's hand wandered down to feel the bullet in his right pocket again, and his gaze drifted to his partner's heavily bandaged right shoulder. He tried to suppress the shudder that suddenly overtook him and closed his eyes.

He could feel Mike's hand tighten on his forearm. He smiled and opened his eyes to see the warm blue ones staring at him. "I'm okay," the older man said softly, as if reading his mind.

"I know," he whispered back, "so am I."

"What's in your pocket?" Mike asked gently, nodding vaguely in that direction.

Caught out, Steve froze then grinned and shook his head. "You don't miss a beat, do you?"

Mike just raised his eyebrows and waited.

With a heavy sigh, Steve shifted slightly so he could slip his right hand into his pocket. He pulled out the plastic evidence bag but before it was completely free, he heard Mike catch his breath.

"Is that from the car?"

Steve nodded as he held the bag closer. Mike's stare suddenly snapped to his partner's face. "That isn't the one…?" he asked sharply, his left hand jerking towards his own right shoulder.

"No, no," Steve assured quickly. "They, ah, they need that one for evidence… This _is_ one they got out of the back seat though."

Mike relaxed and leaned back against the pillow, breathing heavily. He looked up into his partner's face. "The same bullets hit you too, right?"

Steve nodded, looking at the long copper-jacketed cartridge in the plastic bag in his hand. "We were so lucky, Mike… so lucky."

The older man nodded slowly, once more sliding his fingers around Steve's forearm and squeezing. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, trying to slow the pounding of his heart. Suddenly his eyes shot open and he lifted his head, trying not to wince. "What day it is?"

"What?" Steve asked, confused.

"What day of the week is it?" Mike demanded.

"Um, ah, Sunday, I think. Why?"

Mike let his head drop back and he sighed. "I have to call Jeannie. I told her about this trip and said I'd call her on Sunday night and let her know how it went."

"You're not going to tell her what happened, are you?" Steve asked, brow furrowed.

"No, of course not, are you kidding? _She'd_ kill me for not telling her," he chuckled dryly. "Do you know what time zone we're in?"

"Ah, yeah, Eastern. Remember we had to change our watches when we drove down here from Louisville?"

"Oh, yeah, that was weird," Mike nodded, "you know, middle of the state and all that…"

"What time are you supposed to call her?"

"Eight her time. What would that be here?"

"Ah, oh, eleven."

"Eleven? Tonight? You're kidding, right?"

"Sorry, no. It's a three-hour difference, and we're ahead of them out here, right? Most of Arizona doesn't observe Daylight Savings Time, remember, so they have the same time as San Francisco, which is three hours behind us."

"Eleven… I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be able to stay awake till eleven." Mike sounded flustered. "And I know if I don't call, she's gonna worry and try to get a hold of me."

Steve put his hand on Mike's good shoulder. "Look, why don't I stay with you tonight and I can set my watch alarm and make sure you're awake to make the call?"

"Can I do it from here, do you think?"

Steve smiled. "I'll find out." He shook his head and sighed. "We should have been home days ago, right?"

"Yeah," Mike exhaled loudly. He stared into his partner's eyes and inhaled raggedly. "I'm just grateful that neither one of us is going home in a body bag."

Increasing the pressure of his hand on Mike's shoulder, Steve nodded, closing his eyes.

# # # # #

"Oh my god, this is one of the best apple pies I've ever had," Rudy Olsen enthused as he forked the second piece into his mouth.

There were consenting chuckles from around the room, and Steve raised his eyebrows, nodding with a close-mouthed grin towards his partner on the bed. Mike nodded and grinned back.

They had decided to share the pie, and as Pearson and Noble had requested a final debriefing of all the parties involved, the San Francisco detectives agreed Mike's room was the perfect place to convene. Therefore, as the courteous host, Mike suggested they all enjoy Mrs. Rutter's gracious gift. It was turning out to be a big hit.

Sheriff Noble smacked his lips. "Mmm-hmmm. You know what would go perfectly with this?" he asked no one in particular, and for a split second Mike and Steve looked at each other with raised eyebrows. "Some nice cold cherry cola." Both detectives relaxed and chuckled.

"Some what?" Olsen asked with a frown.

"Cherry cola," the Kearney cop said with a wide smile. "Y'all ain't never had no cherry cola?" he asked, laying on the corn-pone accent.

"Ah, no," Olsen said slowly, unsure exactly what was going on. The others chuckled, studying their plates, trying to look innocent. "It's… what? Just Coca-Cola with cherry flavoring?"

"Why, yes, sir, yew got it!" Noble grinned, nodding vigorously.

"Sounds disgusting," Olsen mumbled under his breath, getting back to his pie.

Mike's chuckle turned into a full-blown laugh, which quickly turned into a cough, and he grabbed his right shoulder. Steve, who was sitting in an armchair next to the bed, got up quickly and handed over the cup of water from the bedside table. After a couple of sips, Mike nodded his thanks. "Whew," he chuckled softly, "haven't had a good laugh in awhile. That felt good. Pain and all, it was worth it." He glanced at Olsen and chuckled again.

KSP Sergeant Pearson put his empty plate on the floor beneath his chair and cleared his throat. "Well, gents, anything anybody can think of that we've left unsaid or undone in all this?" His eyes circled the room.

"Not from my end," Martin Pierce said, leaning forward and looking towards Mike and Steve. "Just so you guys know, as far as my department is concerned, everything concerning Donald Lee Rutter is now null and void. Unfortunately now we can't get any higher up in the organization, 'cause I think he would've made a great stool- …" he caught Mike's angry frown and changed tactics, "a great informant. But that's, ah, that's moot now.

"Anyway, I've asked Sheriff Noble here," he glanced in that direction, "to let the Rutter family know that as far as SFPD is concerned, there's nothing to be concerned about. It's over."

"And to convey the Department's condolences," Mike added pointedly, staring at his Narcotics counterpart.

Pierce met the suddenly severe blue eyes levelly then nodded with conviction. "Ah, yes, of course. That, ah, that goes without saying."

"I'm just making sure you say it," Mike said evenly, as Pierce wilted slightly under the glare.

Steve was glancing between the two lieutenants, trying to hide his growing smile. It felt great to see his partner back to almost full strength, in every connotation of that word. Mike at a hundred percent was always a force to be reckoned with, no matter who he was up against.

"We'll, ah, we'll make sure the family gets something in writing to that affect, don't worry," Olsen offered, verbally stepping in between his two subordinates. Pierce sank back in his chair, staring at the floor; with a slight smile, Mike pushed the overbed with his empty pie plate further away and leaned back. He looked at Steve and winked.

Noble glanced at Pearson and cleared his throat. "So, ah, from what we've heard from Dr. O'Neil, they're gonna be lettin' you out, Mike, day after tomorrow, right?"

Receiving a nod, he continued, "And, ah, somethin' tells us you two don' wanna be stickin' around for any longer than necessary, right?"

The two partners chuckled, sharing a quick look, and the others joined them.

"Yeah, that's what we thought," Noble snickered.

"No offense, right?" Steve asked easily and everyone laughed.

Pearson, still grinning, leaned forward. "In that regard, we've arranged for all four of you," he nodded at each San Franciscan, "to be driven to Louisville on Tuesday morning, in an escorted convoy. You'll be put up in a hotel near the airport under guard and escorted to the airport the next morning, with a security detail assigned to you until the plane door closes. How does that sound?"

Mike looked at his partner and chuckled slightly. "You know, when we first got here last week, I would've said that was a little excessive. But now I just really want to get home, and seeing as the last time we tried to leave, we ended up here… well… Sergeant, those plans sound just fine to me." He finished with a grin. "Steve?"

"You'll get no argument from me," the younger man shook his head with a wide smile.

"Good," Pearson nodded, "consider it done. I'll let you know what time we'll be leaving so you're all packed and ready to go."

"Speaking of which, I believe Steve and I need to get some of our things back." Mike looked towards Noble and smiled.

It was the Kearney sheriff's turn to grin. "Yes, Lieutenant, I do have both your .38's and you'll be getting those back. Your suitcases are here, of course, but they'll be a little lighter on the trip home."

"Which reminds me," Mike interrupted, turning to Pierce with a evil grin. "Marty, I do believe you owe me a new suit… and possibly a hat."

At the mention of the hat, Noble looked quickly from Mike to Pierce and back.

Pierce sat back with a confused frown. "What?"

Steve had turned to Mike and they both nodded and looked back at Pierce. "Yeah, and, ah, I lost a nice jacket and a very sweet pair of dress slacks."

"Yeah," Mike emphasized with a sharp nod. "I mean, it's the least you could do. After all, we weren't even supposed to be here. It _was_ Narcotics case, not Homicide's. _We_ were doing _you_ a favor. So…?"

Pierce looked at Olsen. "Rudy…?"

The captain raised his hands and dropped his head. "Leave me out of this. As far as I'm concerned, this is an inter-department thing. I want nothing to do with it."

Pierce sagged in his chair then, under a furrowed brow, glanced up at the grinning partners. Noble and Pearson stifled their laughter and masked their smiles. Clearing his throat with a chuckle, Noble said, "Mike, they did manage to salvage your shoes and your belt."

"Oh," the older man with a snort, "well, I guess that's better than nothing. Good thing I brought a change of clothes or I'd be going home _naked_ ," he finished with a wide-eyed stare at his Narcotics counterpart, who sighed theatrically and rolled his eyes.

Steve looked down, trying not to laugh too loudly then looked at Mike sideways. His partner was having just too much fun. As the laughter died down, he raised his head and looked at Pearson. "Sergeant, Deputy Carruthers seems to think we won't see hide nor hair of any of the families involved in all this before we get out of here? Do you think he's right about that?"

Pearson gave the question serious consideration before he answered. "Yeah, you know, I do," he started slowly, nodding. "From what you told us about your meeting with the Rutters, and what you said, Mike, about your time with the Caudills, well, it seems to me that both families have recognized that you two really have nothing to do with what's going on between the families. Steve, you seem to have developed a real rapport with the Rutters and Mike, well, I've never heard about anyone walking away from an encounter with J.B. with their life intact, so…?" He shrugged.

"My best guess is," he continued, and they hung on his every word, "we won't see any of them. But we're still not gonna take any chances. There's gonna be a guard outside your door, Mike, and another at the motel, and we'll be leaving here on Tuesday lights and sirens, in a four car convoy. There's no point in taking chances now, is there?"

There were serious nods all around, then Mike piped up. "Okay, please help me get this straight…" There was enough whimsy in his voice that Steve's smile was automatic. "The head of the family that I was, ah, _detained_ by, his name is J.B., right?"

"Right," Noble confirmed with grin, "Josiah Beauregard."

"Josiah Beauregard," Mike echoed pensively, nodding, "okay… and, ah, the head of the Rutter family is… J. _D_.?"

"Unh-hunh," Noble offered again, "Jefferson Davis."

Frowning, Mike stared at the Kearney sheriff in perplexity. "How in the hell do you guys keep all that straight?" He looked at his partner in ersatz bewilderment. "I'm glad your name is just Steve."


	25. Chapter 25

"Yes, yes, it's beautiful country here, it really is." Mike looked at Steve again and rolled his eyes. "Lots of trees… Well, the food is, um, interesting. They do like to fry things… Yes, yes, I am being careful, I'm trying to keep the fried food to a minimum… Yeah, yeah, sure, he's right here, just a second."

With raised eyebrows, he held the receiver out and with a grin Steve took it and sat back in the armchair. "Jeannie!"

Mike sighed heavily and leaned back on the bed, resting his left hand lightly on his bandaged shoulder and closing his eyes. The fatigue was evident on his face.

"Yeah, yeah, we're almost finished here. Like Mike said, we're heading home in a couple of days… Yeah, it takes almost a day just to get from here to Louisville… Yeah, it's been an, ah, an interesting trip. They sure do things differently here… What?.. Oh, no, no, we haven't tried any of the moonshine yet but, you know, there's still time." He laughed, glancing at Mike and grinning with raised eyebrows. The older man chuckled.

"Okay, yeah, it is later here. We gotta hit the sack, long day wrapping things up tomorrow… Yeah, yeah, you too; here's your Dad." He handed the phone back to Mike with a chuckle.

"Yeah, sweetheart, we gotta get going, it's pretty late here… Yeah, I'll call you next Sunday as usual… Yes, I promise we'll drive safely… You bet. Okay, sweetheart, talk to you next week… Love you too, bye bye." He hung up with a sigh and closed his eyes again.

Steve stood slowly, balancing on one foot as he reached down for the crutches. "I better get back to the motel. I'll probably wake Rudy up but, hey, this is all sort of his fault anyway."

Mike opened his eyes and turned his head slowly. "Why don't you spend the night here?" Steve stopped moving and stared at him. "You didn't seem to have any problem sleeping in that chair the other night…"

Steve hesitated. There was something in Mike's demeanor that suddenly set off alarms. The younger man smiled gently; he knew Mike didn't want to be alone. Ever since he had seen the bullet Steve was carrying in his pocket, Mike hadn't let him out of his sight. Mike had been rattled more than he would ever care to admit.

Steve nodded slowly and straightened up, leaving the crutches on the floor. "Sure, sure," he said amiably. Truth be told, he was having a hard time too; carrying that piece of steel and lead in his pocket had become a constant reminder of everything they had been through, how close he had come to losing his best friend, how close he had come to his own certain death at the hands of strangers in the backwoods of Kentucky.

Relieved that Mike had made the request and he didn't have to come up with an excuse to stay, he sat back down in the overstuffed chair and smiled. Matching the look, Mike pulled a pillow out from behind his head and tossed it towards his partner.

As Steve started to snuggle into the pillow, settling in and closing his eyes, Mike mumbled, "Don't get too comfortable, you still have to turn off the light."

With a moan, Steve opened one eye and looked up at the ceiling. "Crap," he growled as he hoisted himself onto his good leg, hopped to the door, turned off the light and hopped back, Mike's affectionate chuckles accompanying him.

Mike reached behind himself and pulled the chain to turn off the fluorescent in the panel above the bed as Steve sat back down, wriggling to find the right position for an untroubled sleep.

"Goodnight, Steve," Mike murmured warmly as he closed his eyes.

Through a yawn and a smile, Steve whispered, "Goodnight to you too, Mike."

# # # # #

"So, Mike, we're gonna keep you all strapped up like this for the trip home, 'cause we want to make sure your clavicle doesn't move and that the incision continues to heal as well as it is. Now, don't forget, when you get home, I want to you see your own doctor right away. I'm gonna send all the paperwork with you, and the x-rays, and he can decide when to switch you over to the figure-8 brace. You're probably gonna be wearing that for at least a month, maybe more, depending on how well and how fast you heal."

Mike let his head fall back against the pillow and rolled his eyes. "Great. Can I at least go back to work behind a desk before I petrify?" he whined, and Doctor O'Neil laughed.

"Well, that won't be up to me, you'll have to discuss that with your doctor and, I guess, your superiors. But I don't see why not." The doctor smiled sympathetically. "Captain Olsen is waiting for you out in the hallway. Why don't we get you up and get your robe on and you can go down to the cafeteria for a change of scene?"

With a loud exhale and frustrated bobble of his head, Mike looked at the doctor. "Why not? What else do I have to do?"

# # # # #

"So, ah, we'll head off about ten tomorrow morning, give you and Mike time to get things squared away before we leave. I thought maybe we'd stop in at the police station in Kearney on the way to the 75 so you guys can say your goodbyes to Sheriff Noble and his men," KSP Sergeant Pearson relayed to the young detective sitting across from him in the diner booth. "How does that sound?"

Steve looked up from his study of the coffee cup before him and smiled. "That sounds great, thanks." He looked back down and it wasn't difficult for the trooper to detect the melancholia.

"What's going on?"

The city cop's head came up, his brow furrowed.

"You just seem, I don't know, a little more down that I would've thought. I mean, Mike's doing great, and you're both finally going home tomorrow…"

Steve stared at the dark-haired lawman who wasn't too much older than he was, and a wry smile played over his lips. He shook his head slowly and snorted. "I really don't know," he began softly and quietly. "It just feels like… I don't know… like something has been left undone…? I don't know, I really don't." He looked back down at the table.

Pearson smiled warmly. "Steve, I know just about everything there is to know about what went on with you and Mike and Donny Lee Rutter that night, and if you think there was anything in the world you coulda done to change what happened…? Well, God bless ya, Steve, but there was nothin', and I mean nothin', you could've done differently. All three of you did the absolute best you could've possibly done. But the bottom line is, you were outgunned, and that's all there is to it."

Steve's head had come up slowly. "It that it, Jim, really? We were outgunned? Is that what it's going to come to – they get bigger guns so we have to get bigger guns? Is it as simple, and as frightening, as that?" He stopped and Pearson watched as he pulled the plastic bag with the rifle bullet out of his pocket and dropped it on the table between them.

"In less than thirty seconds they put forty-seven of these into our car; one of them went through my partner. _Through_ him, Sergeant. Forty-seven rounds in thirty seconds. Between us, Mike and I had two .38's with sixteen bullets in the cylinders. We didn't have a chance. M-16's. That's what they had, right?" He paused and tried to collect himself. "How the hell did they get their hands on M-16's?"

Pearson took a deep breath. "We think they brought them back from the war. With the way it's going right now, the winding down, they're not paying too much attention to who goes home with what. So we've been seeing an explosion of these rifles in the backwoods and up the hollers. That kinda firepower shuts people up real quick."

"So what you're saying is, it's only going to get worse before it gets better?"

"Who said it's gonna get better?" Pearson turned away and seemed to make up his mind. When he looked back, he seemed very troubled. "Steve, have you heard of the NRA?"

"The, ah, the National Rifle Association, right? Yeah, I heard of them but I don't know much about them. They represent hunters and target shooters, don't they?"

Pearson waffled before nodding his head. "Well, yeah, I guess. That's their, ah, mandate, I guess you could call it. I've been a member since I joined the force, but it was just somethin' you did, it wasn't something I passionately believed in, if you know what I mean.

"But over the past couple of years, I've been detecting some shit goin' on with them that I'm beginning not to like."

"What do you mean?"

Pearson took a pause and a deep breath. "It might just be me being paranoid, being a cop and all that, but I'm starting to hear some… rumblings, I guess you could say, that they want to get a little more political."

"More _political_? In what way?"

"You know the GCA?"

"The Gun Control Act? Yeah, of course."

"A good thing right, regulating the sale of guns across state lines and that kinda stuff, right?"

"Right, yeah."

"Well," Pearson said with a tired sigh, "the NRA is gearing up to try to have it repealed, or at least get it watered down." Ignoring Steve's suddenly wide eyes, he continued, "The NRA is moving to get politicians and other people in positions of power to kowtow to their agenda, and get the teeth removed from the GCA."

"How do they intend to do that?"

Pearson looked down at this coffee, both hands around the mug. "They've got a lot of money, Steve, a _lot_ of money, and a lot of pissed off gun-owners out there who think that we're trying to take the guns and rifles out of their hands."

"That's insane." Steve shook his head, dumbfounded.

"To you and me, maybe, but there's an awful lot of people out there who don't see the world in quite the same way that we do. And I don't mean because we're cops, I mean as rationally thinking human beings." He picked up his coffee and took a sip, then made a face. "Ugh, cold." He chuckled.

Steve, who was staring at him, smiled briefly. "So, ah, what do you think we should do about it? The escalation, I mean."

Pearson shook his head. "Damned if I know. Personally, I'd like to see the possession and sale of these military type rifles completely banned to members of the general public, especially if they're fully automatic. But if we can't get the guns out of their hands, then we have to make sure we have equal firepower, right? At least make it a _fairer_ fight, if not a fair one."

"But where does it end?"

The KSP sergeant shrugged, raising his eyebrows. "At this point, I don't think it does. And from what I can see happening right now, this is only the tip, and that iceberg is pretty damn big."

# # # # #

"Hey, where did you get to this morning?" Mike asked with a broad grin as Steve swung into the room on the crutches and dropped heavily into the yellow armchair.

"Sergeant Pearson and I went out for coffee and then he gave me a tour around the area. It's mighty pretty country, as they say around here." The subject of their conversation had remained on his mind, and as his eyes fell once more on the bulky bandages encasing his partner's shoulder, his smile disappeared and he almost couldn't suppress the shudder that suddenly overcame him.

If Mike noticed, he chose to say nothing. "Well, I went for a trip to the cafeteria with Rudy. I think I got the short end of the stick again." His laugh was infectious and Steve joined in. "But he had a great idea, Rudy did. He's invited everybody who's available to dinner tonight at a fancy restaurant, and he's even going to pick up the tab." Mike's eyebrows had climbed skyward.

Steve's face fell. "You're kidding? Rudy? Man, you must have put the screws to him to get him to pay for a dinner out for, what, at least six of us?" He leaned back with an appreciative grin as Mike stared at him innocently. "So, ah, they're gonna spring you for the evening?"

Mike nodded, grinning. "Yep, Dr. O'Neil says I'm good to go. But, ah, I guess we're not going anywhere too formal. I mean, you and I aren't going to be exactly dressed for a night on the town now, are we?"

"True," Steve agreed, "but then again, it could've been worse. We could've been _naked!"_

People passing in the hallway turned to stare at the door to the room with the raucous laughter.


	26. Chapter 26

"What?" Mike asked testily, squinting at his partner who was staring at him in the bright morning sunshine. They were standing with the others at the hospital entrance, waiting for the KSP patrol cars to arrive.

Smiling broadly under his dark glasses as he balanced himself on the crutches, Steve smiled and shook his head. "I'm just not used to seeing you outside without your hat on," he chuckled.

Mike gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I know, it feels weird to me too," he confessed then grinned. "Well, you'll have to get used to it for awhile, I guess. Maybe I'll get a baseball cap at the airport."

Olsen and Pierce joined them on the sidewalk as the KSP cruisers swung into the circular entranceway, pulled to a stop and the second car's trunk was popped. As Pierce began to put their suitcases in the trunk, Doctor O'Neil approached Mike.

"Lieutenant," he said warmly, holding out his right hand, "it has been a pleasure, sir." Mike put his left hand out and they shook awkwardly. "You take care of yourself, okay, and don't forget to see your GP as soon as you can and give him all that paperwork I gave you."

Mike beamed. "Thanks again for everything, Doc, really." He glanced down at his shoulder, now covered with his blue-and-white checked shirt, the right sleeve hanging limply. "I owe you, that's for sure. And please make sure you tell Dr. Patel how much I appreciate what he and the base commander did for me, will you?"

"You bet. Just make sure you both get back to work as soon as you can, that'll be payment enough for all of us, okay?" O'Neil glanced at Steve and they both nodded. "You take it easy too, right? Let that leg heal completely before you start doing stunts again, do you hear me?"

"Stunts?" Steve asked quizzically, and they could see his brows knit behind the glasses. He turned to Mike. "What have you been telling him about me?"

The older men laughed as Sergeant Pearson opened the back passenger side door of the cruiser and stepped back. Pearson took Steve's crutches and put them in the trunk as the young inspector climbed into the back seat and slid across to the far side.

With a final shake of the doctor's hand, Mike got carefully into the back seat beside his partner and O'Neil closed the door. As Pearson got back behind the wheel, Olsen and Pierce got into the KSP cruiser behind them. The lead car pulled out, lights on and, with a final wave, the small convoy quickly left the hospital behind.

# # # # #

Mike was staring out the side window, watching the seemingly endless stands of trees whip by. While the lights of the cruisers were on, the sirens were not; Mike had surmised they would only use the siren when passing someone on the county road, and he was soon proved right.

He thought back to the previous night with a warm smile. It had turned out to be quite the little dinner party after all; he, Steve, Olsen and Pierce had been joined by Sergeant Pearson and Doctor O'Neil and his wife Karen; Sheriff Eli Noble and his wife Lois made the trip out from Kearney. And while he and Steve were on antibiotics and painkillers and therefore unable to drink, Mike made sure the others more than made up for it, after confirming there were going to be enough sober drivers in the group.

With a silent chuckle, he recalled Olsen's stricken face when he realized just how much the night was going to cost him.

The topics of conversation had happily stayed away from their recent adversity and instead centered around life in their respective hometowns. The four San Franciscans regaled the Kentuckians with tales of The City while the locals spoke of the colourful local denizens and legends. All in all, it was a delightful night, and a welcome respite from the apprehension that had seemed to haunt their lives for so many days.

With a relieved smile, he turned and looked across the back seat. Steve was staring out the side window. Mike resisted the urge to reach out and touch him, knowing he was being absurd but somehow needing that tangible proof that they really were both all right and going home.

As if reading his mind, the younger man's head turned and, even through the dark glasses, Mike knew their eyes had locked. Then Steve smiled and Mike caught his breath, swallowing hard before he could smile back.

When he turned to look out the window again, Mike had to blink quickly several times before his vision cleared.

# # # # #

The convoy pulled up in front of the small red brick Kearney police station. Before they got out, Mike looked to Steve again and knew they were both thinking the same thing: had it only been a week ago they had pulled into the same spot in the ill-fated dark green Galaxie?

Sheriff Noble and Deputies Carruthers and Carson were waiting at the curb, their faces wreathed in smiles. The deputies opened both back doors of the second car as it stopped in front of them. Carson helped Mike get out while Steve just turned on the seat and stood but electing to remain leaning against the car. Mike circled the car and approached the sheriff, his left hand out. "Eli, how can we begin to thank you…?" he said as he stopped in front of the avuncular Kentuckian.

"There's no need, Mike, ya know that. I'm just glad you and Steve are okay enough to go home, finally." He looked down and shuffled almost embarrassedly. "I wish we could escort you guys at least to the 75 but, well, things are a little, ah, unsettled around here today and we wanna make sure we're here in case somethin'…. blows up," he finished with a shrug, trying to sound casual.

Mike frowned. "How bad is it?"

Noble grinned. "Ain't nothin' we haven't dealt with before, lemme tell ya, but it's kinda imperative that we're here insteada on the road, ya know what I mean?"

"Gotcha," Mike nodded. He looked at the two deputies. "Fellas, what can I say? You guys are some of the best cops I've ever come across. Steve and I owe you our lives."

Both deputies looked down; Carter actually toed the ground self-consciously. The two San Francisco detectives smiled, Steve nodding vigorously in agreement.

Clearing his throat, Noble glanced at Carter. "Alfie…?"

Still embarrassed, the young blond looked up, puzzled. "Sir?"

With raised eyebrows, Noble jerked a nod over his shoulder.

"Oh!" Carter gasped. "Yes, sir!" He turned and hurried into the station and Noble looked at Mike with a 'what can you do?' expression. Seconds later, Carter reappeared with two paper bags, one large, the other quite a bit smaller. He handed the smaller bag to Noble.

"Ah, we didn't want you guys to leave empty handed," the sheriff began as he opened the smaller bag and reached in, "and as you guys weren't able to, ah, indulge last night because of all those drugs you're both on, well, we didn't want ya to leave the state without gettin' a taste of what we're famous for."

He took out a tall clear bottle that looked very much like wine but with a deep amber hue. He held it out for Mike to read the label. Mike looked from Noble's beaming face to the bottle as he took his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on, putting his left hand on the bottle to bring it a little closer.

"Pappy Van Winkle's Family Reserve, 20 yrs old," he read, and behind him he could hear Pearson whistle in awe.

Steve turned to look at the KSP sergeant, eyebrows raised.

"That's, ah, that's probably the best, and most expensive, bourbon you can get," Pearson said quietly, shaking his head and grinning.

The city detective grinned back. The jar of 'shine was wrapped in a towel at the bottom of his suitcase; there was going to be quite a party when they got back to San Francisco, he thought.

Mike took the bottle from Noble's hand. "Thank you, Eli, thank you," he said sincerely with a warm smile. "We appreciate this, we really do, right, Steve?" he called over his shoulder and his partner nodded vigorously, his eyebrows bobbing.

Noble laughed. "Good. Then you two enjoy this in good health and, ah, if you care to share it with Rudy and Marty," he said, pretending to lean in and whisper, glancing at the two other city detectives standing nearby, "that's all right with us too."

Everyone laughed then Noble said quickly, "Oh, ah, Lonny, you want to give Jim the guns?"

"Right," Carruthers nodded, reaching for the canvas bag at his feet on the sidewalk and handing it to the KSP sergeant who opened the trunk.

Noble looked back to Mike. "Your .38's have been cleaned and oiled. Jim'll give 'em back to you at the airport. We don't want you two to have to worry about them 'til then. 'S that okay?"

"Not a problem," Mike agreed with a nod.

Noble inhaled deeply and looked at Mike with a warm smile. "And, ah, well, before we forget. Here." He held the large bag towards the detective then realized that with the bottle in his hand, the injured man had no free appendage to take it. "Oh, ah, sorry," Noble said quickly, pulling the bag back, "forgot. Here, let me." He opened the bag with both hands then reached in and, gently and carefully, removed the now pristine grey fedora.

"Oh my god," Mike heard softly from somewhere behind him, but found he couldn't take his eyes from his beloved hat.

"Wh-" he cleared his throat, "where did you find it?" His voice was so soft that Noble, who was mere inches away, had to strain to hear him.

Grinning, the Kearney sheriff took a step back. "Alfie!" he called over his shoulder and the young blond deputy came forward. "I think you should explain to the Lieutenant here what happened to his hat."

"Yes, sir," Carter grinned. Using Pearson as a crutch, Steve had hopped closer to his partner and was now looking over his shoulder. Carter looked at them both a little sheepishly. "Well," he began quietly, staring at Steve from under his brow, "I think ya might have been a little, ah, pre-occupied, but when we got the Lieutenant here back, one a the boys in the back a the truck picked this up and threw it in the road.

"It, ah, it was pretty dirty an' beat-up. I brought it back here an', ah, well, we just happen to have one hellova guy lives near here who really knows how to clean an' reblock a hat. An', well, I just took it to him to see what he could do." He gestured towards the fedora. "An' I think he did a pretty good job."

Mike, who had passed the bottle of bourbon to Steve, had reached out and hesitantly taken the hat from Noble, who relinquished it with a huge grin. The lieutenant, who had been through so much in the past week, stared at the familiar gray fedora like his life depended on it. Noble, brows knit, glanced at Steve, who just smiled at him and nodded.

Balancing on his good leg, Steve took his hand from Pearson's arm, put it on Mike's back and patted him softly. When Mike finally raised his head, his smile was sheepish and he cleared his throat. He chuckled self-consciously at Noble and Carter, raising his eyebrows. "I, ah, I don't know what to say…"

Noble laughed gently and turned to his deputy with a happy smile. "You've said enough, Mike, don't worry… you've said enough."

Pearson glanced around then at his watch. "Listen, ah, we gotta get goin' if we're gonna make Louisville in good time," he said apologetically, and the others nodded.

As they prepared to say their goodbyes, Noble took a step closer to the lieutenant. "Mike, ah, you're gonna pass the impound yard on your way outa town. If ya wanta stop in an' see the car –?"

"No," Mike snapped, cutting him off. Slower, he said, "Sorry, Eli, ah, I just, ah…"

"No, that's okay, I understand." Noble looked to Steve, catching the younger man's concerned stare at his partner, then he met Noble's eyes and nodded.

Mike slowly put the fedora on his head, smiling wistfully, shook hands awkwardly with Noble and the deputies and made his way back to the cruiser. Steve shook hands all around then, with Pearson's help, returned to the car as well, putting the bottle of bourbon on the floor at his feet.

As the convoy of cruisers left the small parking lot in front of the police station, Steve looked across the seat at his partner. Mike was looking out the side window, but Steve could see enough of his face to know his stare was unfocused and his mind far away.

# # # # #

The small parade of blue-and-white Caprices was making good time on the county road. Steve, having driven this route recently with Deputy Carruthers on their way to the Rutters, was somewhat familiar with their location. Mike had never seen it in daylight, and he was still not paying much attention; he kept looking down at the fedora on his lap, reluctant to even let it go.

Steve shifted on the seat; he knew they were getting close to where the ambush had taken place. And he knew he would recognize that tall stand of trees on the left, the ones illuminated by the headlights of the approaching pick-ups; the pick-ups carrying the Scobies, who had almost ended their lives that night.

Unaware, he cleared his throat softly but Mike heard the sound and turned to look at him. Almost simultaneously, they both felt the cruiser begin to slow, and they looked through the windshield.

Ahead of them, across the road and blocking all traffic, three very old pick-up trucks loomed into view. As the lead police car braked to a stop and the others followed suit, Mike turned to his partner and swallowed heavily.

Steve took off his dark glasses, staring wide-eyed through the windshield then looked at Mike. The older man closed his eyes and took a deep breath then turned once more to face forward.

They both recognized the trucks; they belonged to the Caudills.


	27. Chapter 27

As the two detectives watched through the windshield of their cruiser and both windows of the one in front, the driver's side door of the middle pick-up, which was slightly ahead of the others straddling the white line on the county road, opened and a tall old man emerged.

"That's J.B.," Mike murmured, and Steve turned to him. The older man's face was expressionless; as well as he knew him, Steve couldn't tell if Mike was unnaturally calm or on full alert. They both heard Sergeant Pearson unsnap his leather holster.

The door to the lead KSP patrol car opened and the driver, Trooper Porebski, climbed out slowly. Caudill had stayed beside his pick-up, but everyone had noticed that there were no gun-toting good ol' boys in the beds and each truck just had a driver. The family patriarch even made a point of keeping both his empty hands in plain sight.

The gap between the two groups of vehicles was about a hundred feet. Porebski crossed halfway to the old man and stopped. In the second car, they could hear voices but couldn't make out words. The tones seemed civil.

After several seconds, Porebski turned and started back towards the cruisers. He walked past his own and up to the driver's side window of the second. All three pairs of eyes in the car bored into him as he leaned down and spoke to Pearson. "He wants to talk to Lieutenant Stone."

Everybody froze for a split second, Steve's eyes snapping to his partner. Pearson turned in the seat. "It's up to you, Mike. Do you want to talk to him?"

With a snort and wry smile, Mike asked rhetorically, "What chance do we have of getting out of here if I don't?" His smile widened slightly. "He has no beef with me. And I kind of want to hear what he has to say."

Pearson nodded. "Okay. Let me get your door," he said as he reached for the handle and opened his own door.

"Mike," Steve said quietly, elongating the name.

The blue eyes turned towards him and there was almost a serenity in the stare. "It'll be okay," he said reassuringly as Pearson opened the door and helped him out. Wincing, Mike leaned back stiffly towards his partner. "Stay in the car," he warned, a superior officer issuing an order.

"Do you want me to …?" Pearson asked as Mike straightened up and the trooper let go of his arm.

"No, thanks," Mike said with a smile, putting the fedora on and staring beyond the two cruisers to where Caudill stood patiently in the strong midday sun. "No, J.B. and I'll be just fine."

With a slight smile and an open face, trying not to show any discomfort, Mike walked slowly and deliberately towards the old man. Caudill's face remained impassive, and he waited until the cop was just a couple of feet away before the ghost of a smile briefly washed across his stern, thin lips, barely visible in the white bushiness of the unkempt beard.

"Yer still alive," he said brusquely with a nod, and Mike's smile got a little wider.

Inclining his head, Mike chuckled, "Yes, I am. Surprised?"

Caudill's flashed his teeth and almost laughed. "I kinda figgered ya were a tough bastard like me." His pale blue eyes bored into the Californian.

Mike chuckled again and, even though he had felt no intimidation, he unwound even more. "Is, ah, is there something I can do for you?" he asked simply with a disarming smile.

Caudill cocked his head and stared at Mike without blinking, then his lips curled again and he shook his head. His right hand slowly drifted towards his denim overall pocket and Mike's smile disappeared. He could sense the two KSP troopers behind him snap to attention and knew their hands would be on their gun grips.

"Relax," Caudill drawled, "I ain't packin." His hand came out of his pocket with a black leather case. "We found this on the floor after ya… ah… _left_ …" he explained with a gentle chuckle, extending his hand. "I figgered ya might need it after ya git back t' Californie."

Keeping his eyes on Caudill's, Mike reached out and took the case. He knew without looking it was his badge and I.D. His smile reappearing, he nodded. "Thank you. I appreciate it very much."

"Yer welcome," Caudill growled, watching as the San Francisco detective slipped the case into his pocket without opening it, without checking it. They locked stares in silence for several seconds, then Caudill blinked and took a step back toward the open door of the truck. Holding Mike's hard gaze, he reached into the truck and pulled out a small burlap sack. He held it out, inclining his head slightly. "I also figgered ya might care tuh sample the local hootch. We wouldn't want ya leavin' the state without a jar o' the best 'shine this side a the Mississip'."

Mike took the bag, dropping his head slightly and chuckling, both at the gesture and the irony. He successfully turned his mirth into a grateful smile. "Why, thank you, J.B.," he said earnestly, knowing he was taking a chance using the patriarch's 'first name' but somehow also knowing that, at this point, he could get away with it. He saw the old man flinch, then a wide toothy smile split the beard. A deep belly laugh filled the air around him, and Mike knew without looking that probably everyone standing behind him was exchanging glances of surprise and confusion.

His laugh subsiding, Caudill turned once more towards the truck. "Y'all have a safe trip back out west there an', ah… let's make this yer one an' _only_ trip t' these parts… if ya catch my drift…?"

Chuckling, beginning to turn away himself, Mike nodded. "Oh, there's no worry about that," he laughed, knowing the threat was not just an idle one said in jest. He heard the truck groan as the old man got behind the wheel.

"Oh, ah, Mike!" the old man called out and, chuckling at the deliberate use of his own first name, Mike stopped and turned back, raising his eyebrows. Caudill started the engine then stuck his head out the window. "I like the hat," he cackled as he threw the pick-up into reverse.

Shaking his head and grinning, Mike walked back to the cruisers. Behind him he could hear all three trucks back up, turn around and leave. By the time he returned to the second car, they were disappearing down the road.

With a broad smile at Porebski and Pearson, who had followed him to the rear door, Mike carefully bent down, leaned in and tossed the canvas bag on the seat next to his partner before getting into the car. Frowning with curiosity, Steve picked it up. As soon as he felt the weight, he knew exactly what it was and, as Mike slowly and gently settled himself on the seat, they looked at each other and tried not to laugh. Rolling his eyes and biting both lips in an effort to keep mum, Steve carefully laid the bag on the floor beside the bourbon bottle.

Clearing his throat theatrically, and before Pearson got himself back behind the wheel, Steve asked facetiously, "Ah, anything else you care to share with the rest of the class?"

Feigning innocence, Mike turned from looking out the window. "Hmmm, what?"

"So, ah, you and ol' J.B. best buds now, or… what?"

Mike stared at him, smiling slightly, then shifted carefully so he could reach into his left pants pocket. He pulled out the leather case and flipped it open; both the star and the I.D. were there.

Steve looked up from the case to meet Mike's eyes. "He gave you your badge back?"

Mike nodded, still smiling. "He said they found it in the house."

Steve's eyes drifted back to the case. "Sonofabitch," he mumbled, shaking his head in disbelief.

Mike looked up. He could see Pearson looking at him in the rearview mirror, his eyes crinkled from the grin they couldn't see. The lead car had started to pull out and, shaking his head and chuckling, the KSP sergeant shifted into Drive and began to follow.

# # # # #

The trip back to Louisville was definitely a lot shorter than the one out; local knowledge of the highways and byways helped, as did the lights and sirens mode of transportation. They arrived at the airport hotel a couple of hours before sunset.

Remarkably, both San Francisco detectives had managed to nod off for a bit during the trip. But the constant jarring of the moving car had taken a toll on the older man and he was in a lot of pain when he finally managed to get out of the car.

He declined the offer of dinner in the hotel restaurant, opting instead for just heading up to his room and lying down. Already checked in, Pearson and Porebski escorted the four Californians to their rooms, Steve electing to share the room with his partner.

Pearson deposited their suitcases, and the bottle of bourbon and canvas bag, just inside the door of their room, telling Steve he would wait outside the door. Mike, the heavy bandage like a brace holding his shoulders back to allow the collarbone to heal correctly, was sitting on the edge of the bed with his eyes closed.

Steve swung over and sat beside him on the bed, laying the crutches on the floor. "Look, why don't you just lie down and take it easy for awhile. I'll go to dinner and bring you something back later, okay?"

Keeping his eyes closed, Mike nodded.

"Where are your pain pills?"

"I'm not supposed to take another one till 9."

"Doctor O'Neil said you could take one if the pain got to be too much, remember? I think this qualifies. Where are they?"

"Shirt pocket."

Steve fished them out then got up and hopped to the bathroom. He came back a minute later with a glass of water and a pill in one hand, and a large bath towel over his arm. "Here, take this." He handed over the pill first, then the glass.

While Mike swallowed the pill, Steve laid the towel on the end of the bed and began to roll it. On Mike's quizzical look, he smiled. "Remember what O'Neil said about using a rolled up towel or something like it to put between your shoulder blades when you lie down?"

As Mike watched, Steve took the pillows from the second bed, retrieved the extra pillow from the closet, and stacked them all at the head of Mike's bed. "What are _you_ gonna -?" he started to ask but Steve cut him off with a look.

"I'll get the desk to send some more up when I go down there." Finished piling the pillows, he placed the towel vertically in the middle. "There. Now, let's get you comfortable," he said as he reached down and slipped Mike's shoes off. "What say we leave your clothes on for now?"

"Works for me," Mike said quietly as he slowly pushed himself towards the head of the bed with his left hand. His little gasps of pain were disconcerting but when he finally got settled against the pillows and the towel, he looked up at Steve and smiled. "Ohhh," he breathed, "that actually feels pretty good. Thanks."

Standing over him, Steve grinned. "Good, and you're welcome." He bent down to pick up the crutches. "You try to sleep. What do you want me to bring back?"

"I don't care," Mike moaned, his eyes closed, "surprise me. But try not to make it deep-fried, okay?"

# # # # #

Steve swung himself out into the lobby when the elevator doors opened, his eyes scanning the large room for a familiar face. He quickly spotted Olsen, Pierce and Pearson, who were huddled together taking to a couple of other uniformed KSP officers.

As he got closer, he began to make out their voices, and he recognized one of the newcomers right away. "Trooper Caudill, great to see you again," he smiled as he joined them.

"Great to see you too, Inspector, it really is," Caudill said warmly as they shook hands. "Hopefully this time we can have that little talk, right?"

Chuckling, Steve nodded. "I sure hope so. And it's Steve, okay?"

"You got it, Steve – if you call me Daryl."

"That's not a problem."

"You two know each other already?" Olsen asked with a frown, an index finger swinging from one young man to the other.

"Ah, yeah, Rudy, we kinda do," Steve said with a sly grin, "and I'm kinda surprised you don't. Daryl was the officer guarding my door at the hospital the night you arrived – the one you said you were going to ask about where to get something to eat?"

"Oh, ah, well, I, ah, I – well, there was a lot on my mind that night, two of my best men had been shot –"

"It's okay, sir," Caudill interrupted smoothly with a grin, "I understand completely. As a matter of fact, I think I just told you where to find a decent pizza, didn't I? Hardly something to remember." He looked at Steve and winked.

"Well, ah, _he_ seems to remember you pretty well," Olsen blustered, pointing at Steve.

Balancing on the crutches, the young inspector leaned towards the captain and whispered sotto voce, "Yeah, well, Rudy, Daryl's gonna be one of those guys I'll _never_ forget. He's the guy who saved my life in the woods that night. And you just 'met' his grandfather."


	28. Chapter 28

"The reason we got to you as quick as we did was, well, there are a lot more… cart paths, I guess you could call 'em - they certainly aren't roads - through those woods than you think. That's how we got you out so fast too, but you probably don't remember that." Caudill was cutting his steak, glancing up at his table companions, Steve in front of him, Olsen and Pierce on either side.

Steve nodded, swallowing a roast potato. "No, wait, I remember…" His fork hung in the air for a second. "Yeah, I vaguely remember someone, I think it was Lonny, saying something like that when they were carrying me out of the bush."

Caudill nodded back. "Right. We knew what was going on and high-tailed it up that cart-path hopefully to get at least abreast of you guys. We got lucky and we did, then we had to drop back and get behind the Scobies. It was tricky; we knew we couldn't tip our hand, but those dogs were barking so loud they covered any noise we made pretty good." He chuckled, and Steve nodded knowingly.

Olsen and Pierce exchanged confused looks. They were not as familiar as the inspector with the goings-on in the hollers and felt a little left out. They were also hoping their colleagues would fill them in on the finer details on the trip home.

Caudill cleared his throat and looked down. "But, ah, things kinda spun outa control real fast. I'm just glad we got to you when we did… but, ah… not soon enough. Rutter would still be alive if we'd gotten to you even thirty seconds earlier…" He pushed the food around on his plate. "That's gonna haunt me for the rest of my life…"

Olsen, staring at the trooper's profile intensely, glanced at Steve then reached out and laid his hand gently on Caudill's forearm. "I _do_ know how you feel, son, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone, but you did save Steve here, and I can tell you for a fact that there is an entire police department back in San Francisco that will be eternally grateful to you for that." He hesitated, glanced once more at Steve, and lowered his gaze slightly. "And there's a man in a room upstairs who almost gave up but who's alive right now because this young man is still with us. So... you saved _two_ lives that night, and don't you ever forget that."

Caudill nodded slowly, gratefully, continuing to stare at his plate. Steve, who had focused on the trooper as Olsen spoke, dropped his head and took a deep breath. "Daryl, I… I haven't had the chance to thank you for what you did –"

"And I don't want you to," the trooper said sharply, looking up and meeting Steve's eyes. "I was doing my job… let's just leave it at that, okay?"

As the two younger men continued to stare at each other, Olsen glanced from one to the other. Then he suddenly seemed to make up his mind. "Okay, that's it, it's getting a little too maudlin at this table." He reached for the glass of amber liquid on the table above his plate. "I think it's time we made a toast." He turned to look for the waiter.

"Rudy, I can't drink –" Steve began.

"I know that," Olsen growled, catching the waiter's eye, "you stick with your water. The rest of the grown-ups are drinking the real stuff."

Steve frowned with a smile and a chuckle as Caudill's head came up. "Ah, Captain, I'm on duty –"

"Not tonight you aren't," Olsen almost snapped, then said to the waiter, "Please bring us another bourbon," and gestured towards the uniformed trooper. The waiter's eyebrows rose but he smiled, nodded and hurried away.

"But, sir –"

"Tonight, I'm your boss, all right? And this boss says we need to make a toast, and unless you're on antibiotics like this one here," he pointed vaguely towards Steve, "you're drinking the real thing." Olsen's craggy face finally split into a smile. "Besides, if one drink puts you under the table, we're all in trouble," he finished with a laugh that the others joined.

The waiter returned with a bourbon glass on the small tray and put it down in front of Caudill. The others picked up their glasses. Olsen cleared his throat. "I'm not much for making toasts, and I really don't have much of a way with words." Steve smiled to himself and looked down. "But Trooper Caudill, you are the one here with us right now representing all the fine men and women who have helped my men during this, ah… most unfortunate series of events. And on behalf of the San Francisco Police Department, I want to thank you for everything that all of you did. Because of your skill and dedication, we're bringing both our men home, alive. And I can't thank you enough for that. So, ah, Trooper Caudill, thank you, thank you very much."

The Kentuckian had stared at the captain as he spoke, and now he dipped his head and swallowed hard. Pierce said "Here, here" quietly as he lifted his glass a little higher. Steve's eyes had grown brighter and there was a lump in his throat he tried to clear.

Smiling, Olsen lifted his glass a little higher then drank, the others following suit. All reacted to the potent liquor in their own way: Steve with a cough and a smile, Pierce with wide eyes and a grin, Olsen as if he drank bourbon all the time. They put their glasses on the table and sat back, smiling.

Caudill looked at Olsen warmly. "Thank you, Captain. I appreciate everything you said, and I'll make sure that everyone gets the word." He looked at Steve. "And believe me, no one is happier than me to see everyone going home in one relative piece," he said with a smile.

# # # # #

Steve tried to open the door gingerly but the tumblers made a loud clicking sound in the lock. Grimacing at the noise, he pushed the door open, then leaned back carefully on the crutches and picked up the large paper bag, putting it on the floor just inside the door, then swung into the room and, as quietly as possible with the heavy lock, closed the door.

Picking up the bag once more, he moved deeper into the room, staring at the far bed. It seemed as if Mike hadn't moved since he'd left; his eyes were closed and his breaths were deep and even. Steve put the paper bag on the small table by the curtained window and was just moving away when he heard, "How was dinner?"

He turned as quickly as he could and smiled. "You're awake?"

Mike had opened his eyes and was smiling slightly. "Yeah, I woke up awhile ago but decided to just lie here."

"Good plan," the younger man chuckled as he moved closer to the bed. "How do you feel?"

"A lot better, thanks. It's nice to be on something that's not moving. And the painkiller didn't hurt either. You didn't answer my question – how was dinner?"

"Oh, ah, it was great. The food was excellent and, guess what, Olsen picked up the cheque again!"

Mike laughed. "You're kidding? And I had to miss it."

"Unh-unh, you didn't," Steve said with a chuckle as he turned back towards the table.

"Oh, I thought I smelled something good," Mike smiled. "I'm starving."

"I figured you would be." He opened the paper bag and started to take things out. "Ah, listen, ah, there's someone I want you to meet. And I thought maybe, while you're eating, well, I just thought it would be a good time, seeing as we're gonna be leaving the state tomorrow and all that…"

Mike chuckled. "Would you quit beating around the bush and come out with it!"

Laughing, Steve put a dinner plate with a metal cover on the small table. Then he took out cutlery wrapped in a white linen napkin and a big plastic cup with a lid.

"All right, one of the KSP troopers who's guarding us tonight and tomorrow morning, well, he's also the one who, ah…" he cleared his throat, "who took out the guy who was gonna shoot me." He looked over at the bed; Mike was staring at him, the smile gone. "He's was a sniper in 'Nam. And, ah, and his name is Caudill."

There was a tense silence for several seconds as neither man moved, then Mike's eyebrows rose slowly. "Caudill?"

With a slight smile, Steve nodded.

"Son? Grandson -?"

"Grandson." Steve looked back down at the table and waited.

Finally he heard Mike say quietly, "Well, there's gotta be a story there, right?" Steve looked at him. "I'd love to meet him."

Steve grinned. "Good, good, I kinda thought you would. So, ah, what? Do you want to eat in bed or, ah -?"

"God, no," Mike said with a snort, putting his left hand flat on the bed to push himself up. "Give me a hand, will ya?"

Steve hopped over to the bed; Mike closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and held his breath as, with his partner's help, he succeeded in sitting up and sliding his legs to the floor. Releasing the held breath in a gasp, he hung his head. "God, that hurts," he moaned, then sat there for a few seconds before grabbing Steve's forearm and getting to his feet. Releasing his partner's arm and starting towards the table, he glanced down. "How's your leg doing?"

Using the edge of the second bed to balance himself, Steve followed his partner back to the table. "Slow but sure," he chuckled. They both got to the table and sat. Steve reached for the napkin with the cutlery and was slipping the paper wrapper off when he looked up at Mike and laughed. "We're quite the pair right now, aren't we?"

Mike grinned back and snickered, then he face turned serious. "I'm just glad we're both still here," he said quietly.

Steve's smile disappeared as he bit his lower lip and nodded. "Me too."

They stared at each other for several seconds then Mike looked at the covered plate and grinned. "So, what did you bring me?"

Smiling at his partner warmly, Steve lifted the metal cover. "Ta-da – the best steak they've got. I had one and they're great - melt in your mouth. And with roast potatoes and green beans in lemon and garlic."

"Oh, wow," Mike sighed, staring at the plate, "that looks wonderful. And nothing deep-fried."

"Not a thing. Oh, ah, and a glass, well, _container_ of milk. Sorry it's nothing, um, alcoholic, but we're both on the restricted list…" Steve explained with a comic frown. "I'll cut the steak for you and then go get Trooper Caudill." He chuckled. "I know you guys'll hit it off – he was a Marine!"

# # # # #

"You okay?"

Mike turned away from the airplane window. "Hmm? Oh, yeah, just, ah, thinking about last night. About Daryl and his family."

"Yeah, he has quite a story there, doesn't he? Walking away from your entire family like that but, boy, he sure made something out of his own life, didn't he?"

"I'll say."

The stewardess was coming through the cabin, making sure everyone had their seatbelts buckled before take-off. Steve was in the aisle seat so he could keep his bandaged left leg straight. "Did you take a pain pill this morning? 'Cause you know it's probably gonna hurt during take-off and landing, all that pressure…"

Mike nodded. It was not something he was looking forward to but he was prepared for it. "How are you doing?"

Steve snorted. "Not looking forward to all those stairs back home, that's for sure." He put his head against the back of the seat. He also wasn't looking forward to spending time alone. For the past couple of nights, he'd begun to experience flashbacks: he was on the ground, cold, wet and exhausted, shot and in pain, Alvin Scobie standing over him with the rifle pointed at his chest… He would awaken with a start, breathing heavily, shaking. So far he had managed not to wake Mike; he wouldn't have that problem from now on, he knew, but he also knew the nightmare would not go away on its own.

He glanced at his unnaturally quiet partner, who was staring out the window again. Ever since Mike had reacted with uncharacteristic vehemence to Sheriff Noble's suggestion that they stop and see the ill-fated Galaxie, Steve had kept an eye on the older man. As with himself, there was a lot of extra baggage from this trip that Mike still had to deal with; the trip home was just another step in this unexpected journey.

He wondered how long it would take before the journey would be over.


	29. Chapter 29

_The cackling laugh sent shivers down his spine as the gap-toothed grin leered over him. The dirty hands with the thick stubby fingers began to lower the rifle, the weak light from a flashlight beam catching the dull black metal of the barrel. The laugh grew louder, as did the howls from the hounds. The stock of the rifle got closer to denim-covered shoulder as the black-nailed index finger curled around the trigger. A deafeningly loud crack split the air –_

He woke with a start and a gasp, sitting up quickly, the light sheet that had been pulled to his waist twisted in his hands. His eyes snapped open on the dark room as he fought to control his pounding heart and heaving chest. Momentarily dizzy, he stretched both hands out behind him and leaned his head back, gulping for air.

He turned his head slightly and looked at the clock/radio: 3:21. With a heavy sigh, he leaned forward and gently massaged his aching left calf, trying not to wince. It seemed to be taking a long time to heal and he was getting a little discouraged.

With a resigned sigh, he laid back on the bed and stared into the darkness above him. Any further sleep would be elusive, he knew. He had been home for two days now and had managed a total of five and a half hours of sleep.

He wasn't too upset about it; he didn't relive the nightmare when he was awake…

# # # # #

Sitting up almost vertically on the queen-sized bed, courtesy of a wooden bed wedge that Olsen had borrowed from a doctor friend and a good number of pillows, his breaths were full and even. He was in a deep and restful sleep.

On the bedside table, a glass of water, there so long small bubbles were forming along the sides, stood beside an open plastic pharmacy bottle with _Valium_ on the label. A congealing plate of macaroni and cheese was sitting near the glass; it had barely been touched.

Since he had returned from the required visit to his own doctor yesterday morning, Valium in hand, and Olsen had arrived with the bed wedge shortly thereafter, he had barely been awake. He had been told to keep his arm in the sling for a few more days; it supposedly would help with the pain. When he popped the most recent pill just before midnight, as he put the uneaten dinner down, he realized that in the two days he had been home, he'd been awake for less than six hours.

Because he remembered when he was awake. He remembered the ear-splitting cacophony of bullets hitting the Galaxie, the never-ending barrage that tore the car apart. He could feel the hot slug tearing through his shoulder, slamming him back against the seat and taking his breath away, yet knowing he had to keep his wits about him so he could get out of there alive, so _they_ could get out of there alive.

In sleep there was freedom; in sleep there was escape.

# # # # #

Lieutenant Devitt knocked on the door then opened it without waiting for a response. He stuck his head into the office. "Rudy, you got a minute?"

The grey-haired captain looked up from the file he was reading. "Sure, Roy, come on it. What's up?"

Closing the door and crossing to the guest chair, Devitt said quickly, "So, ah, have you been talking to Mike lately?"

Olsen laid the file down. "I saw him yesterday morning, why?"

Devitt sighed. "I went to see Steve last night – I brought him some groceries - and, in addition to the fact that he looks like hell, he's worried about Mike. Says they haven't talked since they got back. Do you know what the hell is going on?"

Inhaling deeply, Olsen raised his eyebrows. "I had a feeling this would happen." He shook his head and looked away briefly. "They went through a hell of an ordeal in Kentucky. To be perfectly honest, they're both lucky to be alive." He looked back at his lieutenant. "You haven't heard all the details yet, have ya?"

Devitt shook his head. "Just what I've gleaned from things I've overheard. I didn't want to ask Steve directly; I wanted to wait till he got, ah, he got things under control, if you know what I mean?"

"Well, let's just say, for a time back there they both thought the other was dead." Devitt inhaled sharply and Olsen nodded. "And I'm not talking minutes here either, I mean for hours. And I don't think either of them have come to grips with that, let alone the personal terror they each went through. So I'm not at all surprised that they want to put some distance between each other, now that they're home, to get a handle on their own personal demons before they can attempt to help each other."

"Do you think that's wise?"

"Well, it was the – what do the kids call it nowadays? The _vibe_ I got from both of them, and they're grown men, after all, they can make their own decisions. And in a way, I understand what they're going through. But it might be time to bring Lenny in on all this. What do you think?"

Devitt nodded. "Good, good. 'Cause to be perfectly honest, Rudy, Steve had me really worried. He looks like he hasn't slept since he's been back, his eyes are all bloodshot and his hands were trembling. I'm pretty sure it's not all physical, it's mental too. I really think talking to Lenny might be his best option at the moment and, for god's sake, get Mike to give him a call."

Nodding as he picked up the phone and began to dial, Olsen concurred. "I'll get on that right now. Thanks, Roy. And ah, I'll keep you in the loop, I promise."

# # # # #

The first knock went unanswered. After the second did the same, a key was inserted in the lock and the door slowly opened.

Hesitantly, with a quiet, "Mike, are you up?" Olsen stepped over the threshold, followed by the police department's consulting psychiatrist, Doctor Lenny Murchison. The captain looked around the dark, empty living room then closed the door as the shrink walked past him deeper into the house.

"He's up in his room, I'll bet," Olsen said as he pocketed the key and started up the stairs. The bedroom door was slightly ajar and he quietly called Mike's name before pushing it open.

The injured man was deeply asleep, still propped up against the pillows and the wedge. He did look comfortingly peaceful and the two intruders glanced at each other before quietly taking a step back, Olsen beginning to close the door. Murchison's hand suddenly on his forearm stopped him, and the doctor pushed the door open and entered the room quickly, crossing to the bedtable.

With a brief backward glance at Olsen, who had followed, he picked up the plastic bottle and read the label, even though he knew from the size and colour of the pills exactly what they were. He held the bottle towards the captain. "Did you give him these?" he asked sotto voce.

"No," Olsen said, shaking his head, "he brought them home after he went to his own doctor yesterday morning. Why?"

Murchison had looked into the bottle and counted the pills.

"Why, Lenny?" Olsen insisted, a tinge of panic in his tone.

Murchison exhaled loudly. "Okay," he said, almost more to himself than to Olsen, "he's, ah – okay, ah, there're more pills gone than should be but not enough for an overdose."

"An overdose? What are you talking about?" Now there _was_ panic in the older man's voice.

"There should be about three more pills in here, if he was taking them when prescribed. I think he's taking them whenever he wakes up, so he goes right back to sleep." He put the bottle down and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning closer to the sleeping man. He put a hand gently on Mike's left forearm. "Mike!" he said sharply.

When there was no response, Murchison glanced over his shoulder at Olsen then tried again. "Mike! Mike, can you hear me?" He shook the lieutenant's arm, but there was still no reaction.

"Jesus," Olsen breathed loudly in the doctor's ear, "should I call for an ambulance."

"No, no," Murchison said quickly. "It's not an overdose; he's just in a deep sleep. He'll come out of it. It'll just take some time."

"How much time?" The tension and guilt in the captain's voice were unmistakable.

The psychiatrist shrugged. "It all depends on when he took the last pill. Could be a couple of hours, could be longer."

Olsen exhaled loudly, but he seemed to relax. Murchison looked up at him. "Listen, Rudy, I'll hold down the fort here; I'll stay and talk to him when he wakes up. Why don't you head over to Steve's and see how he's doing, all right? There's no point in both of us waiting and I bet Steve could use some company about now, and then you can let me know how he's doing, okay?"

Nodding but unable to tear his eyes from the comatose man on the bed, Olsen mumbled, "Yeah, yeah, Lenny, that sounds, ah, that sounds good. Yeah, I'll, ah, I'll do that." Olsen leaned closer to the bed and laid a hand on top of his old friend's head, gently ruffling his hair. He backed away. "I'll, ah, I'll lock the door after me downstairs."

"That sounds good. Oh, hey, uh, Rudy, don't tell Steve about this, okay?" he requested, nodding towards Mike. "Don't want him getting any more upset than he already is, right?"

Nodding and swallowing hard, Olsen pulled the door almost closed behind him. Murchison heard him descend the stairs, then the front door open and close, the key being turned in the lock. He stood, pulled the small armchair closer to the side of the bed and sat. "Oh, Mike," he whispered aloud, "what the hell are you doing to yourself…?"

# # # # #

The front door of the blue-gray clapboard apartment opened after the third knock. Dressed in a dark blue tartan-patterned dressing gown over beige pajamas and in bare feet, balancing awkwardly on one crutch, a red-eyed and exhausted-looking Steve Keller opened the door. He didn't smile as he tried to back up enough to allow his visitor to enter.

"I guess I don't have to tell you you look like hell," Olsen growled as he crossed into the living room and sat on the couch without being invited.

"Thanks," Steve mumbled coldly as he closed the door then hopped clumsily towards the armchair and dropped into it with a groan. "So what can I do for you?"

The older man stared at him then said finally, "You can start by telling me what the hell is going on here. You didn't look this bad when we got back; what's happened in the past coupla days to account for… this?" He gestured vaguely towards the disheveled younger man.

Steve snorted, looking away. "My leg hurts."

"Bullshit. It was hurting when we were in Kentucky and you didn't look like this; how could it have gotten any worse since then?"

Their eyes met and held defiantly, neither backing down. Then finally the younger man blinked and dropped his eyes.

"What's going on, Steve?" Olsen's voice softened. "Come on, you can talk to me, you know that."

Steve took a deep breath and ran one hand through his unwashed hair.

"You're having nightmares, aren't you?"

The younger man nodded slowly.

"When did they start?"

"Before we left Kentucky." Olsen had to strain to hear the hushed tones.

"Did you tell Mike?"

A gentle shake of a head.

"Are they getting better or worse?"

"Worse."

"So, ah, what, so you're not sleeping, is that it?"

A pause, no movement, then a slow nod.

Olsen sighed. "You can't keep that up, you know. It's not healthy; you'll make yourself sick."

Another nod. "I know."

"Do you want to talk to Lenny?" It was a question asked quietly and carefully.

A shake of a head, then softly, "No. I need to talk to Mike." Steve looked up and met Olsen's eyes once again. The older man struggled to maintain a neutral expression; he thoughts returned to the Potrero house bedroom, where a patient psychiatrist sat waiting for a police lieutenant, wounded physically, mentally and emotionally, to emerge from his self-imposed oblivion.


	30. Chapter 30

Olsen cleared his throat and glanced away. "Why don't you lie all the way down before you fall down and I'll try to get you together with Mike when you've had some sleep. How does that sound? Do you have any sleeping pills?"

Steve had started to shake his head just after the captain began talking. "No, no, Rudy, I'm _not_ taking a sleeping pill and I'd really like to talk to Mike sooner than later."

Stalling, it was Olsen's turn to shake his head. "That's not going to happen until you get some sleep. 'Cause you're gonna have to go over to his place and I don't think you're capable of climbing all those stairs in the condition you're in right now." His eyebrows rose slightly; he realized he had said something he probably shouldn't have but he hoped the younger man was too exhausted and distracted to realize what he had just been told.

"I don't have any sleeping pills, Rudy, I never use them," Steve said with a tired sigh, curling up vertically on the sofa as he tried to keep his eyes open.

Olsen picked up the phone from the end table and held it on his knee, putting the receiver over his shoulder as he started to dial. On Steve's inquisitive frown, he raised his eyebrows as the line connected, nodding to the younger man to hold his tongue. "Roy? Yeah, it's Rudy. Can you do me a favour? I need to get Steve some sleeping pills…. Yeah… Yeah, that would be great. Okay, thanks… Yeah, see you soon." He hung up and put the phone back on the end table before looking up. "Roy's gonna get them over here as soon as he…"

Olsen's voice trailed off. Steve was staring unblinkingly at him under a furrowed brow; he looked worried and upset. "Why do I have to go to Mike's, Rudy?" he asked levelly.

"What?" Olsen asked, hedging, hoping Steve wasn't asking what he was asking.

"Why do I have to go to Mike's? He's up and about, isn't he? Why can't he come over here? Doesn't he want to see me?"

Sensing an out, Olsen asked quickly, "Well, _you_ haven't seemed to want to see _him_ for the past two days. What makes you think he's that anxious to see you? You've pushed him away, haven't you? Because of the nightmares."

Steve looked away, guilt suddenly flooding his face, and he slumped in the armchair.

"Look," the captain continued gently, "why don't we wait for Roy to get here, you take a pill and get some sleep – hopefully nightmare-free – and then when you're feeling, and looking, better, then maybe I'll take you over to Mike's and you guys can talk, okay?"

The younger man had been looking down, listening. Without raising his head, he began to nod slowly. If truth be told, it was a relief to have someone else making the decisions right now. He was so damn drained he knew he wasn't thinking straight; he desperately needed sleep but was loathe to close his eyes and relive those terrifying moments in the Kentucky woods. "Okay," he whispered, acquiescing, and Olsen smiled; it seemed Steve hadn't noticed the 'maybe' in his assurance.

He was well aware he would need to talk to Murchison about making any promises. With both partners obviously battling emotional issues, it would be up to the psychiatrist to outline the best plan of attack to get them through this and out the other side the same men that left on the Kentucky road trip less than two weeks before.

The older man got up, patting Steve's knee as he crossed into the kitchen and poured a glass of water. He handed it to the young inspector then sat close by him on the sofa.

"These, ah, these nightmares you're having…? Are they, ah, from when that Scobie guy was standing over you with the rifle?"

The older man watched as Steve, holding the water glass in both hands and staring into the middle distance, nodded slowly. He put a hand on the young man's knee and squeezed in sympathy and understanding.

"Yeah, and, ah, and later," Steve said softly, "um, when they pulled Mike out of the pick-up and put him on the ground… I was so sure he was dead… he was dead and it was all my fault because I left him behind… he'd been shot and he was bleeding… and I left him behind…" Unnoticed tears began to slide slowly down his cheeks.

Olsen increased the pressure of his hand on Steve's knee and leaned closer. "He's not dead, Steve, you know that. He's not dead. He's all right. He's home recovering, just like you are. He doesn't blame you, Steve, and you know that. He doesn't blame you for anything, and the decision to stay behind was his, and you know that too. None of this is your fault, Steve. Everything that happened, happened _to_ you, not _because_ of you."

Steve was nodding slowly, still staring unfocused towards the floor. Gradually his head came up and his eyes met Olsen's and his brows knit. "Rudy, why do I have to go to see Mike? Why can't he come here?" He sat back slightly and his voice got stronger. "He's not all right, is he? Something's wrong. I'm right, aren't I?"

# # # # #

Murchison glanced at his watch again. It had been over three hours since he'd begun his vigil and Mike still showed no sign of waking up. The small knot in the pit of his stomach had begun to get a little bigger. With a final quick glance at the bed, he got up and left the room, jogging down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Taking quick stock of the percolator, familiar with this particular make and model, it didn't take him long to find the stash of filters and coffee and, after plugging it in, heading back up the stairs. He had just settled into the armchair again when Mike began to stir. From long experience, the psychiatrist knew it would take the older man several minutes to become aware enough of his surroundings to be able to talk. Not wanting to startle the gradually awakening man, he got up and moved away from the bed.

Eventually Mike's eyes opened slowly and he stared straight ahead, blinking heavily. After several long seconds, his head turned towards the bed table and as his eyes settled on its contents, they widened slightly as he froze.

"Are you looking for these?" Murchison's soft voice wafted across the room from the far corner, as he took a step towards the bed and held up the pill bottle.

Mike's eyes sluggishly refocused on the doctor, his face expressionless. "What are you doing here?" he asked thickly, still obviously in the grip of the Valium.

With a wry smile, Murchison crossed to the bed. "Your friends have been worried. They haven't heard from you in a couple of days. They asked me to check on you."

"You don't have a key."

"Ah ha, you're right, but Rudy does and he let me in."

Mike's eyes circled the room slowly. "Where is he?"

The doctor sat in the armchair but kept the pill bottle in his hand. "He's spending some time with Steve." He took a deep breath, deciding to jump into the deep end of the pool. "Seems he has some issues too." Mike's eyes narrowed but Murchison could see he was still having trouble focusing. Before the older man could say anything, he held up the Valium. "What the hell is this all about, Mike?"

"I'm in a lot of pain," he said flatly, still slurring his words.

"These aren't pain pills and you know it. What's going on?"

Mike stared at him, then leaned back and closed his eyes. "I'm all right; I don't need your help. Why don't you get out of here?"

With a sardonic chuckle, Murchison shook his head, leaned back in the armchair and crossed his legs. "Well, that's not going to happen, and we both know it. I'm here for the long haul, whether you like it or not." He waited, and when there was no reaction, he continued, "Mike, you do know eventually you're going to have to go through me to get back to work. Why don't you get a head start on all that right now?" He watched as Mike took a few deep breaths, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.

He leaned forward and patted Mike's left forearm. "I've just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. I'll go get us a cup. Be right back." He got up and crossed to the door. Before exiting the room he looked back; Mike still had his eyes shut but tears were slowly coursing down his cheeks.

# # # # #

"Rudy, you didn't answer my question. Is Mike all right?"

The captain looked down, knowing he was caught out. Steve was obviously more mentally astute, despite the lack of sleep, than he'd thought. Making up his mind, he raised his head and looked the younger man straight in the eye. "No, he's not. He's taking this about as well as you are right now." The words stung, and he knew it, but he was getting tired of beating around the bush.

"What do you mean?" Steve asked softly after a few seconds of stunned silence, the fear rising like bile in the back of his throat.

Realizing he should have kept his mouth shut, Olsen leaned forward and hung his head, taking a deep breath.

"Rudy…?"

"He's, ah, he's not having nightmares, if that's what you're thinking. He's, well, he's avoiding _his_ demons by trying to sleep through them… He's taking sleeping pills, a lot of them –"

"Overdosing?!"

"No. No no no," Olsen assured him quickly, "he's just taking enough so he sleeps all the time… That's what I meant… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to… I'm sorry." This was rapidly getting out of his control; he wished Murchison were here to step in. "He's just, ah… sleeping a lot," he finished lamely, wishing he hadn't broached the subject at all now.

Steve's focus turned inward and he took several deep breaths. "Does, um, does he want to see me?" he asked quietly.

Olsen looked up then shook his head. "I don't know. Lenny's with him. I'm gonna let him make the decision." He looked away, gathered himself, then snorted mirthlessly. "God damn it, Steve, if I'd know this was going to happen to the two of you, I'd've never sent you there, you have to know that."

There was so much desperation in his voice that Steve looked up and smiled almost consolingly. "You know this wasn't your fault. Are we gonna have to get Lenny to talk to you too?"

Olsen chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, I know, but just let me, ah, you know, wallow for a bit. It actually makes me feel better."

Steve smiled, nodding. "Yeah, I understand." He sighed and inhaled raggedly, looking down. He looked so young and fragile and damaged that the older man's heart ached for him. Suddenly Olsen brightened and sat up a little straighter.

"Hey, I remember my daughter saying something once about some, oh, herbal tea or something… ah, what is it? Camel..? Caramel…?" He looked at Steve for help.

"Chamomile," came the quiet chuckle.

"That's it! Isn't it supposed to help you sleep or something like that?"

"That's the rumour."

Olsen waited for Steve to continue but when he didn't, prompted, "Well? Do you have some?"

Steve smiled enigmatically. "You mean, because I'm young and went to Berkeley and live in San Francisco…?"

"Yeah, all that stuff," Olsen laughed. "So, do you have some?"

Letting the older man wait while he pretended to think, enjoying the spontaneity of the moment, Steve let his smile grow a little wider. "Yeah, in the small cupboard over the counter on the left."

With an enthusiasm so reminiscent of Steve's partner, Olsen shot to his feet. "I'll find it. You just sit there and relax; try to fall asleep if you can. I'll be right back with the tea." He was already near the kitchen door. "You got a kettle, right?" he called over his shoulder as he disappeared. "Oh, there it is – found it!"

Steve's smile faded slowly. Would he ever share a moment like this with Mike again? Had their ordeal in Kentucky changed their relationship forever? Had it changed him forever? He held his right hand out; he knew he couldn't hide, or even stop, the shaking. The hole he was in right now seemed so deep he couldn't even begin to imagine how he was going to climb the slick, steep walls. And if he did, would Mike be there at the top to help him out?


	31. Chapter 31

Murchison lingered getting the two cups of coffee, giving Mike more time to pull himself together. Tray in hand, he entered the bedroom with his head down, clearing his throat. "I'm not sure how you like your coffee so I brought some milk and sugar," he said conversationally as he put the tray on the armchair, then turned to the bed.

Mike's eyes were open but he was staring straight ahead. There were no traces of the tears that had been streaming down his cheeks when Murchison had left the room earlier.

"So," the psychiatrist continued in the friendly tone, "how would you like your coffee? Black? A little milk? A little sugar?" He had picked up one of the mugs and now stood patiently beside the bed. When Mike didn't respond, he said again, "You want it black?"

Mike's head inclined a little as he blinked and turned slightly. "A little milk," he said softly, and Murchison swallowed his relieved smile, quickly biting his lips before turning to the tray.

"A little milk it is," he said as he poured, knowing that the floodgates had opened a crack. Now he had to carefully find a way to open them all the way. When he turned back to the bed, Mike had his left hand up. "Here, are you okay handling that?" he asked as he put the cup in the older man's hand. Mike nodded then lifted the mug to his lips and took a sip. Murchison watched, smiling softly, then returned to the tray and fixed his own cup. He put the tray on the floor before he sat.

Taking a sip, he grinned, "Say, that's pretty good, if I do say so myself." He looked at Mike, but the lieutenant still hadn't looked his way. As the silence stretched out between them, a plan began to take shape. When his cup was half empty, he sat forward and put it on the bed table with a noticeable thump.

"So, I think you've gotten enough sleep for awhile, and you must be hungry. I have an idea. Let's get you dressed and I'll take you out for something to eat and we can go for a walk."

Mike shook his head. "I don't feel up to it, Lenny." His voice was low and flat.

"Nonsense. I talked to your doctor and he said you're just fine. You're going to be in some pain for a bit still, because that's just the nature of a broken collarbone. But he's all for you getting out and starting to get some exercise. As a matter of fact, he recommended it." He stood. "So, let's get you up, and while you do whatever it is you have to do to get yourself ready, I'll go downstairs and call the office – my office – and tell them I'm tied up for the rest of the day. How does that sound?"

When Mike still didn't react, Murchison sighed heavily. "Look, Mike, I'm not going to pressure you. You don't have to talk to me… Let's just go out for a bit, get something to eat and some fresh air. We can talk about, oh, the Giants, or how well you think the Niners are going to do this year… the weather… you know, anything you want…"

Mike had finally turned to face the overly enthusiastic psychiatrist. From past experience, he knew Murchison wouldn't take 'No' for an answer. And, if he was being completely honest with himself, he knew he needed to get out of bed. He was embarrassed and ashamed of what he had been doing since his return, but the depth of his fear and guilt had been too overwhelming. And, circumstances being what they were, he had been denied the opportunity to ruminate on what he had gone through with the one person who could fully understand what he was experiencing.

But he also knew he couldn't confront Steve in the state he was in; he knew his partner was suffering as much, if not more. At this precise moment in their lives and relationship, it would only do more harm than good, he realized, if they were face to face. He had to pull himself together, overcome his own doubts and fears then hopefully be able to help Steve do the same.

He stared at Murchison without expression, then nodded slowly. "I am a little hungry," he agreed quietly, concealing a smile when he saw the psychiatrist almost collapse with relief. "But don't you have to go home at some point?"

He was rewarded with a wide, relieved smile. "Oh, my wife is kinda used to my, uh, unusual schedule. I do believe she thinks she's married to a cop sometimes, with the hours I keep." He looked at Mike gratefully. "Don't you worry about me." His eyebrows rose. "So, you up for a walk and something to eat?"

With a slight, gentle sigh, Mike nodded. "All right."

"Great, great," Murchison said, taking a step closer to the bed and helping to pull the covers down. He took the mug from Mike's hand and put it on the table. "So, ah, what can I do to help you sit up? Your doctor said standing up and sitting down are when it hurts the most, right?"

Nodding grimly, Mike swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "Just let me grab your arm and I can pull myself up." Gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut against pain, Mike got to his feet, swayed slightly then caught his balance and released his grip on the doctor's forearm. He nodded with a slight smile. "Thanks, I can take it from here," he said, breathing in short gasps trying to control the discomfort.

"Are you still taking pain pills?"

"Yeah, they're in my shirt pocket." He nodded to the clothes thrown haphazardly over the foot of the bed. Murchison rifled through the shirt and slipped the bottle out of the pocket.

"How many?"

"Two."

Putting two pills on the bed table and keeping the bottle, Murchison nodded. "Well, take your time, I'll be waiting for you downstairs." When he got to the door, he glanced back at Mike, who was picking up the pills and his coffee cup, and smiled. Nodding but not saying anything, he closed the door behind himself as he started down the stairs.

# # # # #

Olsen started awake, cleared his throat and looked around the dark room in confusion. Then it all flooded back. He was lying on the couch in Steve Keller's living room. The bright afternoon sunshine was seeping around the edges of the dark curtains, reminding him that it was only just late afternoon, though for some reason it felt like the middle of the night.

He froze, listening for a sound, but other than the normal hum of household appliances, there was, mercifully, nothing.

Roy Devitt had dropped off the package of Valium tablets while he and Steve had been enjoying a steaming mug of chamomile tea. It was the first time the older man had indulged in the 'hippie brew', and he was honestly quite surprised. It wasn't as foul as he had assumed it would be; though he wouldn't admit it, he actually found it quite soothing.

With only a modicum of resistance, he had managed to cajole the younger man into taking one of the sedatives, with the caveat that if he continued to have the disturbing dreams, the sleeping pills would be discontinued. That was four hours ago, Olsen smiled as he looked at his watch. So far, so good.

Getting up slowly and quietly, a little stiff from lying on the living room sofa for so long, he tiptoed up the stairs and looked through the open door of the master bedroom. He could see the outline of the young man in the bed and hear the reassuring measured cadence of his deep, restful breaths.

With a grateful sigh, Olsen turned and slowly crept back down the stairs. He crossed into the kitchen and took the receiver off the wall phone, trying to dial quietly. He stepped deeper into the kitchen, trying to get as far away from the upstairs bedroom as possible.

"Marie," he whispered loudly when the phone was answered, "darling, I need you to do me a big favour."

# # # # #

Despite the brilliant sunshine, a brisk wind was whipping in off the Bay. Tourists riding the Powell Street cable car could be seen turning up their collars and retreating inside the car to get away from the biting chill.

Mike had his left hand and the cuff of his empty right sleeve in his windbreaker pockets, head down, looking at the sidewalk, slumping as much as he could with the thick bandage holding his shoulders back. His eyes were shaded by the brim of the fedora.

Murchison, behind dark glasses, was trying to make eye contact with everyone they passed. He didn't get out as often as he liked and was reveling in this unusual opportunity. "What a gorgeous day," he sighed, glancing at his companion for confirmation that wasn't forthcoming. "It feels good to be outside, doesn't it?"

They had shared a quiet meal of lasagna and garlic bread in a small bistro on Maiden Lane, and were now walking slowly around Union Square, bustling with tourists and natives on their way home after work.

Murchison looked obliquely at the quiet man beside him. "So, ah, why don't you start by telling me what happened in Kentucky? You don't have to get into specifics; just, you know, give me an idea of what you and Steve went through, how does that sound?"

Mike kept walking, seemingly oblivious to the doctor's proposal. Murchison cocked his head and snorted. They walked on in silence.

"Not here," Mike said suddenly, still looking down, and the other man hesitated slightly, a hitch in his stride.

"Okay," he said slowly, carefully, "so… where?"

"Let's go back to my place."

Nodding, a slight smile curling his lips, Murchison said calmly, "Great."

They both turned in the direction of the car.

# # # # #

Olsen kissed his wife then stood back with a wide smile. "You're a life-saver, my dear, you really are."

She smiled back. "Well, I just hope he eats something. From what you said, it sounds like he's in a miserable place. I feel so sorry for him."

"So do I," Olsen admitted.

"Do you think it's wise to keep him away from Mike right now? It certainly sounds like they need each other, doesn't it?"

"Well, that's what I thought too, but I talked to Lenny just awhile ago - he's with Mike, like I said – and it's his professional opinion that they should both confront what's bothering them and get some kind of… control over it before they have to deal with each other. And I can kinda see his point."

Marie Olsen put her hand on her husband's chest. "They both sound like they're in so much pain."

"They are. Believe me, they are. And I feel responsible for that, I really do."

"Oh, Rudy," she sighed sadly, reaching up to pull him forward for another kiss, "if they don't blame you, and I'm sure they don't, then please don't blame yourself. Just be there for them. Help them like you're doing. You're a good man, and I love you very much. Remember that, okay?" She finished with a chuckle and another kiss.

He sighed heavily. "I will. I love you too. Well, I better get up there and see how my patient is doing. Thanks again, darling. Drive safe. And, ah," he shook his head with another sigh, "I have no idea when I'm gonna get home."

"Don't worry about it. Just take care of our boys, okay?" she said with one final kiss as she stepped out onto the stoop in the fading daylight.

As he closed the door behind his wife, Olsen turned and looked up the stairs. The enticing aroma of roast chicken and potatoes, staying warm in the oven, filled the air and he smiled to himself. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and resumed his vigil beside the bed of the still peacefully sleeping young man.

It was going to be a long night, he realized. He knew at his core that he couldn't let them leave the room until the demons had begun to be put to rest, no matter how long that took. There was more than one heart and soul at stake here, and two remarkable men to put back together.


	32. Chapter 32

"I was handling this so much better in Kentucky."

"Why do you think that is?"

Mike was sitting in the armchair in his living room, a cup of coffee in his left hand, his gaze unfocused. Doctor Murchison was leaning back on the sofa, relaxed, his legs crossed, cradling his own coffee mug in both hands.

The older man, still not making eye contact, took a loud deep breath and slowly shook his head. "I don't know." He shrugged as much as he could without jostling his right shoulder. He'd been through this routine before; he knew the psychiatrist wanted him to think it through, come up with an answer. "Maybe because there were too many other things going on and didn't have time to think about it… I don't know." His voice died away.

Murchison nodded, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward, putting his coffee cup on the floor. "Think about what… specifically?" He watched closely as Mike just sat there, breathing calmly and evenly, continuing to stare at nothing.

Mike took a deep breath and held it. "When, ah, when we got ambushed," he said finally, his voice small and far away. "I mean, ah, you know, I've been in my fair share of firefights when I was in the service, and I've had a couple of pretty intense encounters on the job but…" he exhaled loudly, "but never anything like this… never…"

Murchison slowly and carefully leaned in a little more. "What happened?" he asked gently as, offering no resistance, Mike allowed him to take the coffee cup from his hand and put it on the floor.

After a few seconds of silence, Mike raised his eyebrows. "We were outgunned, plain and simple. We didn't have a chance. They just started firing and they didn't stop…" He paused, and Murchison watched as he sat there, still breathing evenly but obviously reliving the ordeal. "Have you ever seen a bullet from an M-16?" he asked, surprising the psychiatrist as his clouded blue eyes turned suddenly in that direction.

Caught off-guard, Murchison swallowed, sat back slightly and shook his head.

"It's a military rifle; the bullet's almost three inches long." He stared into the younger man's eyes as he spoke, but the doctor knew he wasn't in the room, he was sitting in the back of a car on a dark deserted road in rural Kentucky, facing his worst fears.

As Mike's eyes slid away from his face to stare once again at nothing, Murchison swallowed heavily again and took a deep breath. He knew he could never understand exactly how it felt to have a gun pointed at him, let alone a semi-automatic military rifle, and he was grateful for that. But he still hoped he could find some way to help this uncharacteristically vulnerable man.

"How many shooters were there?" the psychiatrist asked softly.

Mike blinked slowly, coming back to the room and the present. "Three, at least three… They put forty-seven shots into our car in less than thirty seconds."

Murchison caught his breath, hoping the older man hadn't noticed. He'd been told what had happened in Kentucky, but he wasn't aware of the horrifying details. Getting himself quickly under control, he leaned forward again. "That was when you were shot?"

Mike nodded, still not making eye contact. "It went right through me… it was white hot; I could feel it burning… my arm went numb but I didn't taste blood, so I knew I wasn't going to die right away… and they kept firing… I just waited for the next one to hit me …the bullets were tearing up the inside of the car all around us… and it wasn't stopping… I thought we were all going to die…" His voice faded away.

"How did the three of you get out of there alive?"

"We, uh, we had a split second to react before they started firing."

Murchison cocked his head, frowning. "How did that happen?" he asked slowly.

Mike looked down then carefully leaned forward, trying not to wince. He rested his left elbow on his thigh, covering his mouth with his hand. "I, ah, I yelled for Steve to… ah…"

"To what?"

"To hit it, to get down…"

Murchison shifted slightly, knowing he was on to something. "How did you know?" He was keeping his voice low, his tone reassuring.

Glancing up and clearing his throat softly, Mike took a breath before answering. "I, uh, I was sitting in the back seat with Rutter. When the truck blocked our path, we were blinded by the headlights. Rutter was staring at the truck like he recognized it. I thought it was his family… come to take him from us." He paused and cleared his throat again. "Some people got out of the truck… We couldn't tell what was going on, Steve and I… Then somebody stepped in front of one of the headlights, and Rutter's smile disappeared. He looked scared. I guess that's when I knew…"

"And you yelled at Steve to get down?"

Mike nodded.

"And nobody else got hit except you?"

Another nod, and a deep inhaled breath. "Thank god," came the whispered response.

Murchison eased himself forward a bit more. "Why were _you_ hit, do you think?" he asked quietly and saw the older man frown, as if not understanding the question. "What I mean is, why didn't you react as fast as Steve, if _you_ were the one that warned _him_?"

"I, ah, I pushed Rutter down first. I had my hand on the back of his t-shirt, keeping him quiet. When I yelled to Steve, I pushed Rutter down out of the way…"

Murchison smiled slightly to himself. "You pushed him out of harm's way before ducking yourself… That's why you got hit…" he said quietly.

Mike didn't move. "Steve got us out of there… I don't know how he did it, but he got the car moving, he went around the truck… they kept shooting at the back of the car… I don't know how he did it…"

"Why didn't you tell him you'd been shot?"

The cop looked at the psychiatrist sharply then dropped his head. "I knew he'd want… he'd want to stop and, ah, and take care of me," he cleared his throat, "and I knew we didn't have the time, that whoever was shooting at us were gonna find us and kill us if we didn't keep moving."

"How much pain were you in?"

"It, ah, it wasn't too bad…"

"You said you couldn't feel your arm."

"My shoulder was numb and I couldn't lift my arm… but I could flex my hand, so I didn't think it was too bad…" His gaze had drifted away again and stared into the middle distance. Murchison knew there was more to come so he sat back quietly and let the older man deliberate. The progress they had already made was encouraging; he would let Mike reveal as much or as little as he cared to, in his own time.

"What is it that you're having the most trouble dealing with?" the psychiatrist probed gently.

Mike took two deep breaths before he said quietly, "The sound… it never stopped… the sound of those huge rounds hitting the car, over and over again… it felt like it was never going to stop… I knew, I _knew_ we were all going to die and there was nothing I could do about it…" The breath he took was ragged and his entire body shook. His worried, hooded eyes turned slowly towards the doctor. "I don't know if I can do this anymore," he said quietly.

Murchison's brow furrowed, and he strained to keep the growing concern out of his voice. "Don't know if you can do _what_?"

Mike looked away. "My job," he sighed with a mirthless snort. "I was scared, like I've never been scared in my life before. I _knew_ I was going to die, that Steve was going to die, and there was nothing I could do about it. I'd failed us both… I never want to feel that way again. I can't go through that again… I just can't..."

Murchison, for one of the few times in his professional life at a loss for words, sat back on the sofa and studied the deeply troubled man before him. He let the silence lengthen between them, and watched as the older man sat quietly, his head down, left hand over his mouth, staring blankly into space.

Finally, the psychiatrist leaned forward and put a gentle hand on Mike's knee. When the cop finally met his eyes, he smiled. "You didn't fail anybody, Mike. You, Steve, and even Rutter – who owed you his life at that moment – you all walked away from that because you did what you do best, what makes you the great detective you are. You notice things, you understand people and how they act and how they react. You saved lives in that split second before the shooting started, Mike, and you know that, right?"

Mike stared at him but didn't say anything at first. Then, "I got lucky," he said quietly.

Murchison grinned. "Bullshit. You can read people like nobody else I know." He patted Mike's knee, knowing they had made a break-through. "You're still here, Mike. Steve's still here. You saved him, just like you saved Rutter." When Mike opened his mouth to interject, the younger man cut him off. "What happened to Rutter later was not, and will never be, your fault. And I'm not going to let you go on believing that, if I have to talk to you from here to doomsday." He stared the older man down. "Now I can't begin to know how it feels to be sitting in a car that's being blown apart by semi-automatic rifle fire, and I'm not going to pretend that I do. But what I do know is that you have nothing to feel guilty about, and you definitely have nothing to fear anymore. You and Steve are both alive, you're both home and you're both healing. And you'll both be back at work before you know it. You won, Mike, you beat this. Now don't let it beat you… You faced probably the worst situation a cop can get himself into, and you're still here. You and Steve, you're both still here. And I think that's something to feel good about."

With a wink, Murchison reached down and picked up Mike's cup, then reached for his own. "You just sit here and think about that and I'm gonna refresh our coffee, and when I get back, we're gonna keep talking and we're gonna tackle anything else that bothering you, all right?" Without waiting for a reply, he turned and started towards the kitchen. As he crossed the threshold, he looked back.

Mike had sat back in the armchair, still staring at nothing in particular. But, although there was still a long way to go, the lines of guilt and worry were beginning to recede from his weary face.


	33. Chapter 33

Olsen was sitting on the sofa, doing his best not to fall asleep. His wife had warned him about napping while the oven was on and, like a dutiful husband, he was trying to heed the spousal advice. But it was getting more and more difficult.

Shaking his head vigorously, he glanced at his watch as he got stiffly to his feet. 11:54 pm. Good god! He had been at the Keller apartment over twelve hours now, and it was well past his bedtime. Since his promotion to captain, and more administration paper-pushing than actual detective work, his regular bedtime was now at a more reasonable hour. With a quiet chuckle, he wondered how Mike still managed the long days and sometimes nights, and with as much vigor as he always had.

He tiptoed up the stairs to the bedroom and looked in again, a ritual he was performing almost once an hour, it seemed. Steve had been asleep for almost eight peaceful hours now, for which the older man was profoundly grateful. The undisturbed rest was the best thing for the troubled young man, but Olsen wasn't looking forward to the anticipated conversation when he awoke. This was Lenny Murchison territory, he knew, but the police psychiatrist had his hands full, at the moment, with Steve's partner. There was no telling when he would be free and, until then, the distressed inspector was his concern.

Olsen was turning away from the open door when the rustle of material caught his ear and he stopped, looking back. Steve's legs were moving under the covers and as the older man watched, his eyes opened and he stared at the ceiling then let his eyes slide towards the door.

Olsen smiled as Steve's eyes widened. "Well, you seem to have had a good sleep. How do you feel?"

Blinking slowly and stretching slightly, Steve inhaled deeply. "Good, I feel good. Guess I needed that," he said languidly as Olsen nodded in agreement. "Oh god, what time is it?" he asked as he glanced at the curtains, noting the absence of sunlight around the edges.

Clearing his throat lightly, the captain said vaguely, "Ah, it's, ah, around midnight."

"Midnight?" came the startled response, and the older man nodded with raised eyebrows. "Oh, god, Rudy, what are you still doing here? You didn't have to stay." Steve started to push himself up, suddenly feeling guilty.

Stepping quickly into the room and shaking his head, Olsen said soothingly, "Relax, relax, I've been taking some catnaps, I'm fine. Besides, this brings me back to my days on the streets, so to speak, all those long days and nights that you and Mike seem to take in stride. About time I had one or two of those just to keep my hand in, so to speak, you know?" He sat on the chair beside the bed. "But seriously, how do you feel?"

Steve looked at him thoughtfully, appreciating the effort the captain was putting in, and the genuine concern he was showing. "A lot better, thank you. I really needed that."

"No nightmare?"

"No nightmare."

"Good." Olsen smiled, then looked down and swallowed nervously. "Listen, ah, I know I told you neither of us was gonna leave this room until we got to the bottom of what's giving you those nightmares and I think - "

"You never said that," Steve said quietly, interrupting.

"What?" Olsen asked, confused.

"You never said we wouldn't leave this room until we 'got to the bottom' of whatever was giving me nightmares."

Olsen's brow furrowed. "I didn't?"

Steve shook his head, eyebrows raised. "No, you didn't."

"Oh, well, I guess maybe I said that to myself… anyway, that aside," he said, waving a hand dismissively, trying to regroup, "I am gonna let us out of this room. I don't know about you but I'm starving. There's a little something staying hot in the oven downstairs. Hungry?"

With a gentle, slowly growing smile, Steve nodded. The captain was impressing him at every turn, it seemed. He had never seen this side of his boss and it was humbling and gratifying at the same time. "As a matter of fact, I am," he chuckled, knowing there was a hard road ahead but suddenly realizing that tonight at least he would not be walking it alone.

"Great," Olsen said with brisk nod, and he reached down to pick the crutches off the floor near the bureau. He put them closer to the bed. "Why don't you get yourself up, do what you have to do, and I'll go down and put our supper out." He had crossed to the door before he turned back, almost as an afterthought. "Oh, I hope you like roast chicken and potatoes. I had Marie bring some by." And with that he was gone, heading down the stairs.

With a chuckle, shaking his head, Steve got out of bed.

# # # # #

"Your wife is an amazing cook, Rudy, really. This is wonderful, and just what I needed. Thank you." Steve wiped his lips with a napkin and sat back, satiated.

Grinning, Olsen pushed his plate away. "I will definitely pass along your compliments. She's always been an amazing cook. So was her mother. I used to spend many a night at her parents place before we got married. Hmm, that may be the reason I always had to work out a little more than Mike did to stay in shape, I guess."

They chuckled companionably, but at the mention of his partner's name, Steve sobered quickly. He looked down and cleared his throat. "Have, ah, have you talked to Lenny in the last few hours?" he asked guardedly.

"Ah, no," Olsen said quickly, "no, I haven't. I know he took Mike out for a walk and dinner, but I haven't heard from him since."

Steve nodded slowly, still looking down. "I, ah, that's good news, right? He's got Mike up and out."

"I think that sounds like great news. Mike's gotta be doing better. So, ah, so now we have to get you back, right?"

Steve looked up at the older man but didn't say anything. "Rudy," he said finally, "you don't have to do this, you know, it's really not –"

"It's not my specialty, I know," the captain cut him off gently, "but I happen to kinda know what you went through, and as a former street cop, like you, I might know just a little better than Lenny what exactly you experienced back there." He shrugged. "So why don't we give this a try, Steve, and see where it gets us. And if we find out I can't help you the way Lenny could, then we wait for him. How does that sound?"

Steve nodded slowly with a slight, warm smile. It just might be easier talking to someone who knew firsthand the fears and uncertainties a cop lived with, and someone also familiar with the strong bond shared between partners.

Buoyed by the fact that the younger man didn't object, Olsen sat back. "In that case, why don't I pour us a couple of fresh cups of coffee, we retire to the more comfortable confines of your living room and, ah, we let, ah, well, you know…." He shrugged uncomfortably with a frown and dry chuckle as he stood and crossed to the counter.

# # # # #

Steve, still in his pajamas and bathrobe, his hands wrapped around the burgundy mug, was curled up in the armchair. Olsen had piled a couple of throw pillows against the end of the sofa and was stretched out, his cup on the coffee table. Neither had said anything for over a minute, both unsure of where to begin.

Olsen cleared his throat. "So, ah, that nightmare you've been having, Scobie just about to shoot you… um, what, specifically, other than the obvious, I mean, scares the crap out of you?"

Steve snorted, trying not to laugh at the captain's choice of words, and he covered with a look down and a clearing of his throat. "Um, well, I guess that's pretty… obvious, I guess. I really didn't know anybody was following us, I mean other than the Scobies with their dogs, and honest to god, I had time to look into his eyes as he started to point the rifle at me… Rudy, I really thought…" he snorted self-consciously. "I really thought it was the end, I really did. And I know he was shot before anything could happen, but I still see those dead eyes, looking at me like I wasn't a person, I wasn't a living being that he cared in the slightest about… I was just something that stood in his way and had to be taken out…" He looked up into the older man's sympathetic eyes. "I think that's what bothers me most about that moment… the fact that I meant absolutely nothing to him. Just something to be killed and tossed aside… I've never felt that before… it was…" he shook his head slowly, "it was like my life meant nothing…"

Olsen let a few silent seconds pass before he asked softly, "Do you remember what you were thinking about in those seconds?"

Steve's eyes drifted away and unfocused. He began to nod almost inadvertently.

"Yeah… Mike…"

Olsen started slightly then hoped that the younger man hadn't noticed. He realized that they had already jumped to the next level he had intended to take them to – the guilt that Steve still carried over the decision to leave his wounded partner behind.

"So, ah, so why did you think about Mike?" the older man asked hesitantly, not knowing what kind of answer he would receive but assuming it was the question that Murchison would ask at this point.

There was another mirthless snort then Steve said softly, "Because when I left him, shot and bleeding, under that tree, I promised I'd come back for him… and I wasn't going to be able to…" His voice petered out with a heavy sigh.

Even from his position on the couch, Olsen could see the tears well up in the younger man's eyes. Steve's left hand had found its way to his mouth and he rubbed his fingers absentmindedly across his lips, looking down. The older man gave him a few seconds to collect himself then said quietly, "He's okay, Steve. He's fine, remember?"

The inspector nodded, preoccupied, then took a deep breath before saying softly, "But I didn't know that then, Rudy. We'd heard those shots… before… the shots in the distance. Donny Lee had told me they weren't from where Mike was, and I wanted to believe him…. but I thought maybe he was just trying to… I don't know, spare me… " He stared into nothing, reliving those moments.

Olsen sat up slightly. "Rutter was dead by then, wasn't he?" he asked gently and watched as the younger man's eyes closed slowly and he nodded. "How did you feel about that?"

"Devastated…" Tears had begun to slide down his cheeks. "He didn't have a chance, they just cut him down, right in front of me… He'd helped me, he'd helped Mike, he put him someplace safe… We were responsible for him and we couldn't save him, we couldn't protect him… I couldn't protect Mike…" He inhaled raggedly. "We were all going to die and I couldn't protect any of us…"

Olsen got up quickly and leaned forward, putting a gentle hand on Steve's knee, hoping the touch would impart some small measure of comfort. He waited a few long moments before saying softly, "But you did protect Mike. You and Donny Lee, you hid him away where the Scobies couldn't find him. You saved him… And there was nothing that you, or Mike, could have done to save Rutter. Nothing you did contributed to his death. Nothing." He paused for a few seconds to let his words sink in. "You and Mike are still here, Steve, you're both still alive. And that's the best outcome all of us could have hoped for. Am I right?" When there was no immediate response, he asked again, "Am I right?"

Steve was looking down, the tears slowly dripping unnoticed from his chin. He nodded slowly.

"Trooper Caudill and Sheriff Nobel, they got there on time, didn't they? They saved you, didn't they?" There was another tentative nod. "And Mike, the Caudills found him; it wasn't the Scobies, was it?" One more nod. "It's over, Steve, okay? That part of your nightmare, you can put it to rest. You survived, Mike survived. You have to acknowledge and believe that. Or you're never going to get past this. Trust me."

Olsen held his breath. He had seen other officers collapse under the weight of a guilt that was unearned and undeserved.

Eventually there was another nod and the older man closed his eyes briefly in relief. He patted the younger man's knee and sat back slightly. They had a ways to go yet, but he felt confident that they were on the right track, and he was heartened that maybe, just maybe, he was doing more good than harm here.

"So, ah, you said earlier that you were having trouble dealing with, ah, with…" he cleared his throat and looked away, taking a deep breath, "when you went to exchange the Caudill boys for Mike." He looked up, waiting for Steve to meet his stare.

It took awhile, but eventually the bright green eyes met his; the pain they reflected was heartbreaking. "He was dead, Rudy… I was sure of it… He was dead and it was all my fault…"


	34. Chapter 34

Murchison was sitting back in the armchair, staring at the silent man on the sofa. He'd taken his time brewing a fresh pot of coffee, allowing Mike to reflect on what they'd discussed, what he hoped was a breach in the wall of guilt that the detective had built around himself since his return from Kentucky. "How are you feeling?" he asked conversationally, and watched as the wary blue eyes snapped up, full of fire. They softened quickly and their owner looked down, snorting lightly.

"You can be a sonofabitch sometimes, you know that, right?" he said with a chuckle and a shake of his head.

"True," the psychiatrist agreed, nodding, "but it comes in handy, wouldn't you say?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, cradling his mug in both hands. "Look, Mike, what you went through in Kentucky, I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy, but you and Steve, you both survived it. You're home and you're recovering. Now, I know it sounds trite and even facetious for people to say, 'You're home, you're going to be okay, get over it and get back to work.' But they mean well and you know that, right?"

Almost reluctantly, the other man nodded, looking away.

"Well, the problem with that is, they don't know what you and Steve went through, and they never can and they never will. And I don't expect either of you to tell them because, well, frankly, they won't understand, even if they _are_ cops. For god's sake, _I_ don't understand - and I never will - because I didn't live through it like you two did." He paused and stared into the older man's startlingly blue eyes.

"All is know is, you're too strong and too valuable to let this beat you. And I know for a fact that it won't… you won't let it. Am I right?"

Looking down, Mike dropped his forehead onto his left hand then through his hair. He sighed. "I hope you're right, Lenny, I hope you're right. But I just don't know…"

With a small smile, the psychiatrist sat back. "Well, maybe you don't, but I do. I'm not expecting a miracle here, you're not going to walk away from this, ah… _talk_ we're having completely back to normal. It's gonna take time. For both of you, I'm pretty sure. But like the old axiom says, time gives you perspective and it _does_ heal, as you well know. I find it constantly amazing how resilient people can be. Give it some time, and have patience with yourself, and I'm confident you're going to be just fine." His smile was encouraging. "Do you believe me?"

Mike took a deep breath, staring at the psychiatrist evenly. "I want to."

Murchison nodded curtly. "That's good enough for me. So," he leaned forward and put his cup on the floor, "what else is bothering you? What is it you still can't get past?" He knew that the older man was disarmed and at his most vulnerable right now, and it wouldn't be difficult for him to open up even more.

Mike's sigh was resigned. He was hoping that the psychiatrist really was right about his future, but he also knew he couldn't go forward without confronting the uncertainties that were preventing that at the moment. Maybe giving voice to them _was_ the best way to overcome them.

The younger man waited patiently. Finally, Mike leaned back and wrapped his left arm across his chest, holding his right upper arm. He looked down. "The shots…"

"Shots…?" Murchison frowned, cocking his head.

Mike nodded. "When I was, ah, under the tree… I wasn't sure how long it'd been since they'd left me. I'm pretty sure I was drifting in and out… It was raining… it was…" He paused. "The dogs – I heard the dogs. They came so close… They stopped barking… I could hear them panting, sniffing; I could hear men yelling at each other. I knew it was only a matter of time till they found me... But they didn't… The dogs started howling again and they headed away from me… I couldn't believe it. But I knew they were going after Steve and Donny Lee, that they weren't going to stop till they found them…

"I was lying there, trying to hear anything, hoping I'd hear nothing. I don't know how long it was, but the howling had faded away… And that's when I heard the shot…" Mike swallowed heavily. "I didn't know how far away it was, or exactly where it came from… all I could think of was, they found them… they found Steve and Donny Lee…" He took a deep unsteady breath. "But there was only one shot and I thought, wait a minute, _one_ shot?... Steve has his gun and mine… maybe… just maybe…" He closed his eyes. "Then I heard the second one… and I _knew_ … I _knew_ they were dead, both of them… only the sound a rifle shot could travel that far…" His voice had faded to a whisper, then disappeared. His eyes were suddenly bright and he blinked quickly several times.

Murchison leaned forward and laid a hand on the older man's knee in support and comfort. He waited, staring at the downturned face, patiently waiting.

The strong deep breaths eventually subsiding, Murchison offered gently, "But Steve didn't die, did he? He's still with you, isn't he?" He waited for his words to sink in. Finally Mike nodded. "How long did you think he was dead?"

A shrug and a head shake. "Until I woke up in the hospital… a day and a half maybe? But I wasn't awake most of that time…" His faraway gaze started to coalesce. "I think I'd given up…"

"Why?" Murchison asked softly.

Mike swallowed heavily again and closed his eyes. "Because I'd let him down. I should have been with him… I should have died with him… instead of hiding…"

"Is that what you think?" the psychiatrist almost snapped, not quite believing what he had heard. "You were _hiding_?" Mike dropped his gaze even more. "Michael, you'd been shot, you couldn't have kept up with them if you tried with all your might, and you know that." He paused and regrouped. "And they _hadn't_ been shot, at least not then, you know that now."

The psychiatrist increased the pressure of his hand on the older man's knee. "You didn't let anybody down, Mike, least of all Steve. And he'd be the first to tell you that, wouldn't he?" When there was no response, he asked again, more forcefully, "Wouldn't he?"

Slowly the blue eyes lifted and looked at him. Mike nodded.

"I'm pretty sure he was as scared and worried about you as you were about him. And I bet when he heard those same shots, he thought it was you." Murchison leaned back, relaxing enough to cross his legs, resting his hands on the arms of the chair. He knew exactly what he had to do.

"Mike," he began quietly, "you're caught in what I call the 'if only' spiral, reliving things you can't possibly change, as if brooding over them will somehow rewrite history. It's never worked before and it's not going to work now, or ever, for that matter.

"As tragic as things turned out in Kentucky, you and Steve are home, you're going to be all right and, as much as you might wish it, nothing is going to change what happened, no matter how much you blame yourself for things you had no control over. And, to be perfectly frank, the sooner you accept that, the sooner you're going to be the Mike Stone everybody knows and cares about again."

The psychiatrist, watching his patient closely, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, studying the expressionless, downturned face.

"It's not going to be easy and it _will_ take time but, well, because of your physical situation, time is what you have, thank goodness. Now, what I think is, you and Steve need to get together - but not necessarily to, you know, _talk_. I just think you need each others' company right now, to get your lives back on track."

Mike's brows had knit when Murchison mentioned talking to Steve then softened at the suggestion it not be a formal therapy session. He knew he couldn't take that right now.

The psychiatrist smiled. "Trouble is, we have to get you guys on the same sleep cycle," he chuckled gently and was rewarded when the corners of Mike's mouth turned up slightly. He glanced at his watch. "Look, ah, we've been up for a long time now, and it's almost three in the morning. But I don't want you sleeping till noon or we'll never get back in sync. Why don't you lie down for a couple of hours, try to sleep if you can… I'll take a nap on the couch here, and in the morning I'll give Rudy a call and see what's up over there. How does that sound?"

Staring at the carpet, Mike nodded. As Murchison got to his feet, Mike looked up. When he didn't say anything at first, the doctor just stood patiently, waiting. Clearing his throat quickly, the older man said quietly, "You've given me a lot to think about, Lenny. Thank you. You know, ah, you could have a pretty good career as a shrink, you know that?"

The psychiatrist grinned. "Why, thank you, Mike. I'll have to look into that." He held out his left hand and helped to carefully and slowly pull the older man to his feet.

# # # # #

"He was unconscious when they pulled him out of the back of the truck… I thought he was dead… he looked dead… I couldn't breathe, I froze… it wasn't happening, but it was… and it was my fault…" Steve held up a hand before Olsen could interrupt him and the older man closed his mouth. "At that moment, it _was_ my fault, and I wouldn't've cared what anybody said to me… Mike was dead and it was my fault."

The green eyes were bright but there were no tears. The pain was too deep for tears.

"Rudy, I'm never going to get that image out of my head… ever… Mike lying on the ground, in the dirt, not moving… I couldn't see him breathing…" Steve closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face, heeling his eyes, then stared down into nothing. "I'll never forget that, or when I walked away from him lying under the tree…" Despite his overwhelming guilt and heartache, a slight smile appeared. "He was smiling at me, Rudy… and there was so much love –" He choked, with a strangled sob, and his hand moved quickly to cover his mouth.

Leaning forward slightly, Olsen said quietly, "That's because he loves you."

Steve began to nod slowly, his hand still over his mouth, his gaze still far away. "And I love him too," he said in a whisper, his voice unsteady, and drew in a deep ragged breath.

Olsen let the silence lengthen, then shifted his weight to the edge of the chair and put his hand once more on Steve's knee. "You know, I think you two need to spend some time in with each other, don't you?" he asked gently.

The hand came away from the younger man's face and the gentle smile returned. He nodded. "Yeah… yeah…"

Smiling as well, the captain glanced at his watch. "Look, Steve, it's almost four a.m. …" When the tousle-haired head came up, brow furrowed, he grinned, "Can you believe it – we've talked almost all night?" He chuckled. "So, how 'about we both try to catch some z's and in the morning, I'll give Lenny a call and see if we can get you and Mike together? Is that a plan, do you think?"

Steve had begun to nod slowly, staring at his boss with unabashed appreciation. "Yeah, I like the sound of that… Rudy, ah, I don't know where to begin to –"

With a laugh, the older man got to his feet. "If you're trying to thank me for just sitting here listening to you all night, forget it. It felt good to be of use to someone like this again. Being behind a desk all the time now, I lose track of how hard it is in the field sometimes. This has been as good for me as I hope it's been for you." He held out a hand to help pull the younger man to his feet.

"Now, let's get you back upstairs and I'll grab a couple of hours on the couch here," he nodded at the sofa, "then we'll figure out what we're gonna do for breakfast – I don't dare call Marie again," he chuckled. "And then we'll see what the day holds, shall we?"

"Look, Rudy, you don't have to sleep down here –"

"Are you kidding? This is a hell of a lot comfier than the one I have at home. I may have to look into getting a new sofa…" He looked up into Steve's smiling face, pleased to see the young man looking a little more like the exceptional and popular inspector he had come to know and respect over the past few years. And not for the first time he envied Mike the deep, seemingly unbreakable bond that they shared.

As Olsen picked up the crutches and handed them over, Steve chuckled, "You know, Lenny better start walking around with one eye over his shoulder. You could give him a run for his money in the shrink department."

"You think so?" Olsen grinned with a chuckle of his own. "Hmmm, I may have to give that some thought!" His laughter filled the room as he accompanied Steve towards the stairs.


	35. Chapter 35

The knock came very close to noon. Steve got up from the sofa, grabbing the cane that was leaning against the armchair and crossed slowly to the front door. Taking a deep breath, he snapped the dead bolt off and opened the heavy wooden door.

As he expected, a grinning Mike Stone was on the stoop. What he wasn't expecting was seeing his partner standing very erect, his right arm no longer in a sling, although his shoulders seemed unnaturally high, as if shrugging. "Hi," the older man said brightly, though a slight tinge of trepidation seemed to be haunting his eyes.

Steve's left hand travelled to the back of his own neck and he raised his chin, taking a deep breath and glancing up, as if afraid to make eye contact, afraid he couldn't keep his own unexpected apprehension under control. It seemed such a long time since he had looked into the familiar blue eyes, and he wasn't sure he could trust himself to remain on an even keel. The past two days with Olsen had proved more emotionally draining than he was prepared to admit.

"Hi," he finally managed to get out, "um, ah, come in." He took a step back and gestured towards the room.

"Ah," Mike held up a finger, "I'm, ah, I'm gonna need a hand getting all this stuff in." He pointed down, and Steve's eyes followed the movement. There was a large black duffel bag and several paper grocery bags on the stoop at Mike's feet.

Steve looked up, his brow furrowed. "What the hell is all that?"

"Well, give me a hand bringing it all in and I'll tell you." Without bending over, he squatted and, looking out of the corner of his eye, grabbed the top of a paper bag. He glanced up at his partner and raised his eyebrows. "They have me in a figure-8 brace, they call it. I'm sort of at permanent attention now. I can't bend over," he explained.

"Ah, I was wondering why you seemed taller, and appeared to be shrugging," Steve replied with a grin and a nod. "Well, ah, between the two of us, we should be able to accomplish this. Pass me the bag, if you can."

"Oh, I can, I just have to be careful. It still hurts like hell," Mike said, gritting his teeth as his picked up one of the paper bags with his left hand and held it out for the younger man to take. "Slow but sure… It's a good thing we're not pressed for time."

Steve grabbed the paper sack and took a step back to put it on the floor just inside the door. "How about we do this in two parts? Let's get everything in and then we can ferry it into the kitchen, where I presume it's going?"

Mike was reaching down for another bag. "You presume correctly."

As Steve reached for the bag, he glanced out at the street, not seeing Mike's car. "You didn't drive here, did you?"

Mike passed over a bag. "Oh, god, no. I can't drive yet. Lenny dropped me off. He was my chauffeur this morning – a trip to the doctor for the brace and then to several grocery stores and sundry shops. I really put him to work," he finished with an almost evil chuckle.

Everything safely inside, Mike closed the door behind himself. When he had picked up the duffel bag, metal objects had clanked about, and the younger man gave him a curious look. "You brought frying pans?" he asked, recognizing the sound.

Smiling a little sheepishly, Mike nodded. "Well, I've never done too much cooking here, other than just warming stuff up, and I wasn't sure if you had everything I need."

"Need for what?"

"Remember me telling you Jeannie bought me a cookbook for my birthday?"

"Yeah, you mentioned something about using me as a guinea pig, if I recall correctly."

"You do, and yes, this is the day." They were moving the bags into the kitchen, covering all the spare counter space and the entire tabletop.

Steve couldn't resist a goofy grin. "You're gonna cook me a gourmet dinner?"

Undoing the zipper on the duffel bag that was lying on the floor, Mike looked up with a warning glare. "Just so you know, I'm not doing _all_ the cooking; you're gonna be helping too. There's a lot of work to be done."

Still grinning, Steve leaned his cane against the counter and starting unpacking one of the bags. "I'm game, just tell me what to do." His eyes widened as he watched Mike take a large, fairly thick book with an aquamarine cover out of the duffel and set it on the table. He angled his head so he could read it. "Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Julia Child… you've got to be kidding me, right?"

Mike's narrow-eyed glare shut him up quickly. "For your information, hotshot, this is one of the best cookbooks around and the recipes are delicious."

"I bet they are," the younger man said haltingly, trying to sound impressed, "but my experience with French cooking revolves around things like crepes Suzette, escargot, coq au vin and quiche Lorraine. I've never been a big fan…well, except for the coq au vin, that's kinda good," he finished lamely.

"Ah ha," Mike said triumphantly, getting slowly to his feet with the help of the table, "I'm about to make you a believer, or at least a convert."

"So… ah, what are you making?"

Mike smiled enigmatically. "You're a detective, right?'

"So I've been told," came the facetious reply.

"So, you're gonna have to figure it out yourself when you see all the ingredients, Mr. College Education."

"Hey, I majored in Criminology with a minor in Psychology; I never went anywhere near a kitchen. How am I supposed to figure out the main course from the ingredients?"

Mike tapped his temple with a forefinger. "It's called logic, my boy – there are only going to be so many conclusions you can come to, so put your thinking cap on and suss it out." He grinned and raised his eyebrows. "What? Don't you think you're up to the, ah, challenge?"

Steve smirked and lowered his chin, staring at his partner under a furrowed brow. He started to nod slowly. "All right," he said languidly, his curiosity and innate love of competition piqued. "You're on. But -" He raised a finger. "- can I consult the cookbook after I see all the ingredients?"

Mike sighed heavily, thought about it, then nodded. "As a last resort."

Steve nodded in agreement, then gestured towards the other bags. "Okay, let's see what you brought."

With a doubt-filled snort, Mike started to empty the contents of the paper bags onto the table. "Oh, by the way, we're also making a salad and a dessert, so good luck deciding which ingredients go with which recipe," he snickered.

"Great," Steve sneered as he unpacked the bags on the counter. The more he saw, the deeper his frown. From the first bag he produced red and yellow bell peppers, garlic, green and yellow beans, a paper bag filled with mushrooms, another paper bag of new small potatoes, red and yellow tomatoes, one small white onion and a bunch of carrots. The second contained a bottle of black olives, a tin of anchovy fillets, a bottle of cider vinegar, a bottle of extra virgin olive oil, a jar of pearl onions, a jar of Dijon mustard, a quart of milk, a small carton of cream and a small bottle of vanilla extract.

He glanced at the table, where Mike had finished unpacking the two large bags that were there. He could see a package of stewing beef, a large slab of a fish which looked like tuna, a tin of tomato paste, a brick of butter, a bag of flour, cooking onions, a package of bacon, a bottle of red wine, a carton of eggs, a large bag of sugar, and a large unidentifiable assortment of fresh herbs.

Mike was watching him as he studied the assorted ingredients. "Give up?" he said brightly.

"Ha ha, I haven't even started yet," the younger man retorted dryly. "Okay, so, you've gotta give me some time."

Mike pursed his lips, frowning, pretending to give the idea some serious thought. "You're right, I'm not being fair. Okay, let's say you have till we completely separate the ingredients for the different dishes, how does that sound?"

"What, you mean like, what, a couple of minutes from now? Come on, that's not fair. You have the upper hand here, you know. I know nothing about French cooking, or cooking in general, for that matter," he finished almost sotto voce.

Mike chuckled, as he folded up the paper bags and slid them alongside the fridge. "You should spend a little more time at my place and take some lessons from Jeannie – she'll have you cooking like James Beard in no time!"

"But I don't want to cook like James Bond."

"James _Beard_ , smartass. If you spent less time chasing girls and more time on the finer things, you'd be very well-rounded, my boy. A real renaissance man."

"Does that mean I have to take up painting too?" The smirk that accompanied the remark was hidden by the turned away face, but he swung back quickly. "Oh, you mean a polymath, right?" There was a sense of triumph in the question, asked innocently with raised eyebrows.

Mike's smile disappeared quickly, replaced by a stunned confusion. "No, wait a minute, this doesn't have anything to do with arithmetic…" he began slowly, holding up a finger and frowning.

Steve's triumphant grin, figuring he had won this particular battle of wits, withered and died on the vine when he spotted Mike's wide eyes and tongue planted firmly in his cheek. "You know what polymath means, right?" he growled lowly, his shoulders sinking.

"They seem to use that word a lot in crossword puzzles," the older man grinned as he turned back towards the table, laughing quietly.

Chuckling, Steve took a step closer to the table. "Okay, you win. So, step one, I guess, we divide the ingredients into the three recipes?"

"Well, that seems to play right into your hands but, yes, I guess we kinda have to do that." He smiled. "However, personally I don't think that's going to help you one bit. Good luck!"

"Thanks," came the dry reply, rewarded with a cheeky chuckle.

Mike glanced around at the various items spread over the counter and table. "All right, divide and conquer. Let's put the ingredients for the main course on the table, the salad and dessert on the counter. I'll read out the ingredients for the main course and you can move them to the table; how does that sound? Pass me the cookbook," he asked as he picked up the slab of fish and stepped towards the counter.

Steve nodded with a facial shrug. "Works for me. Shoot." He reached for the heavy cookbook on the table but it slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor with a bang.

His back to the room, Mike flinched, grabbing the counter instinctively with both hands then gasped in pain and caught his breath. Steve, who had begun to bend automatically when he dropped the book, caught the uncharacteristic reaction from his partner and froze. Mike had remained facing the counter, but he had dropped his head slightly and was breathing heavily through his open mouth.

"Are you okay?" Steve asked quietly, and watched as his partner started to nod slowly, getting himself under control. Steve glanced down at the book on the floor then back up, realizing that the sound had been eerily similar to a shot. "It's okay… I, ah, I just dropped the cookbook. It's a heavy bastard…" he said with a slight chuckle, trying to lighten the sudden tension in the room.

Mike cleared his throat. "Yeah… ah, yeah, it sure is." He turned slowly away from the counter, looking embarrassed and a little strained. Steve had picked up the book and handed it to him. With a nod and clearing his throat once again, Mike turned back to the counter, put the book down and opened it to a page he had previously marked with a piece of paper.

Steve stared at the back of his partner's slightly downturned head. He reached out and put a hand on Mike's shoulder. He could feel the brace as his fingers gripped the older man's neck and squeezed gently. He felt and heard Mike take a quick, sharp breath.

They both hoped the banter and light-hearted mood would return. But reality had a way of thwarting the best of plans, the best of intentions. They still had a long road to travel, but from this point on, it would be walked together.


	36. Chapter 36

Mike cleared his throat again, angry with himself for such a ridiculously excessive reaction to the dropped book. The light-hearted atmosphere he had striven so valiantly to establish had vanished in that split second, and he wondered how long it would take them to get it back, if at all.

Behind him, he could hear Steve chuckle gently and the grip on his neck lessened and disappeared as the comforting hand was removed. He took a deep breath and stared down at the book, trying to focus on the words on the page. He reached into his shirt pocket and took his reading glasses out, slipping them on as he tilted the cookbook up slightly, resting the top against the tin of anchovies so it was at a better angle. The brace was making it hard for him to lean forward.

"So, ah, the main course… ah, we're gonna put them on the table, right?" he asked, having trouble getting his concentration back.

"Yeah," Steve said softly, and Mike felt the younger man's hand lightly on his back and a couple of gentle, encouraging pats.

"Okay, ah, the beef…"

"Got it here," Steve said. "Next." His tone was light and playful, and Mike smiled briefly, appreciating the effort.

"Ah, bacon…olive oil…wine…onions…flour…mushrooms…" As Mike read out the ingredients, Steve transferred what was needed to the table, his frown continuing to deepen. Mike's voice lost its tension as he proceeded and by the time he finished, they were almost back to the playful mood they had managed to capture before.

Mike turned away from the counter, closing the cookbook so the recipe wasn't visible. "So, you have any idea what we're cooking?"

With faux irritation, Steve stared at the various items on the table. "I'm beginning to form an hypothesis…"

"Yeah, right," Mike snorted, then squatted carefully beside the open duffel bag. He reached in and started to withdraw a frying pan.

"Here, let me get that," Steve said, limping closer to the bag and bending down. "You've got too much cooking to do to go on the DL before we even get started."

With a grateful nod, Mike pulled himself up with the aid of the table, and waited patiently while Steve unpacked two large frying pans and a heavy pot with a lid. He stared at the last item with a furrowed brow. "What the hell is this? Is this cast iron? It looks ancient. Did your ancestors bring it over from the 'old country'?"

Mike snorted and rolled his eyes. "It's called a Dutch oven, smart ass, and, no, my wife bought it just after we were married."

"So it _is_ an antique?" Steve glanced up at Mike, trying to suppress his smirk. He laughed out loud when the older man reached out and cuffed him on the back of the head. The good mood was coming back.

"All right, so, the first thing we have to do," Mike said seriously, turning back to the counter, "is simmer the bacon lardons for ten minutes in 4 cups of water."

He stared at Steve, whose blank expression was punctuated by the occasional blink. The older man waited, equally expressionless. Finally Steve shook his head once very slowly, closed his eyes briefly and asked, "What?"

Mike laughed evilly and pointed toward the bacon on the table. "Do you have a cutting board?"

"Ah, yeah, over there," Steve pointed towards the far side of the counter.

"Good. Put it on the counter and get the sharpest knife you have. Then take the bacon and I'll show you what to do."

Doing what he was told, Mike instructed the younger man on how to produce lardons from the thick cut bacon. He had already filled a large saucepan with four cups of water and, when Steve had finished, put the lardons in and turned on the heat. "They have to simmer for ten minutes. Now we have other stuff to get ready."

Steve, who had put on an apron before he began to cut the bacon, was leaning against the counter, contemplating this aspect of his partner he had never seen before. Mike glanced up and caught the contemplative look. "What?"

With a sudden broad smile, the younger man shook his head quickly and pushed away from the counter. "Ah, nothing, nothing. So, what's next, Julia?"

Mike gave him a hard stare before turning slowly back to the cookbook and flipping it open again. "Put the Dutch oven on the stove and turn the burner on," he instructed as he picked up the stewing beef and took it out of the package. He opened an upper cupboard and took out a dinner plate, then grabbed the roll of paper towels and ripped off a couple of sheets.

As Steve watched, his partner, with an ease and familiarity that was downright impressive, laid the beef on the plate and patted the excess moisture from it then set it aside. "Don't just stand there," Mike said without looking, "clean off the cutting board and the knife and slice up the onions and carrots. Chop chop."

"Yes, sir," Steve chuckled then set about his task, moving his centre of operations to the table after the requested cleaning. Mike was doing something at the counter with the dried herbs and what looked like a ball of string. They worked in silence for the next several minutes; Steve continued to dart surreptitious glances in his partner's direction, trying to gauge his mood. He knew Mike was still rattled by his reaction to the dropped book, and he also knew that at some point in the day, they would need to begin to talk.

As they worked, Mike did an exceptional job of keeping the recipe a secret, always aware of Steve's location and using his body to shield the view, or closing the book at the appropriate moment. It became an escalating cat and mouse game that they both began to enjoy.

For Steve, the diversion offered him another benefit. He hoped that the more time he spent with Mike in quiet companionship, the more those nightmarish visions of his partner's lifeless body lying on the dirt road would start to fade. It seemed lately that every time he closed his eyes, that was the image he saw.

Mike had caught him staring a few times but declined to comment; the older man was doing the same thing, and he knew they were both taking solace in the gesture. Just to be in the same space, breathing the same air, without the pressure of having to talk about anything more pressing than the meal they were preparing was the healing balm they both needed at the moment.

"There, done," Steve announced triumphantly as he put the knife down and stood. "Carrots and onions chopped. What's next, boss?"

Mike glanced over from his position beside the stove. "Okay, good. So, I am going to take over making the main course, and you are going to create the salad." He flipped to the back of the cookbook and picked up a folded piece of paper from inside the back cover. He unfolded it and handed it over.

"What is this?" the younger man said with sarcastic incredulity. "A recipe? You mean I don't have to do it using my intuition and the power of positive thinking?"

"Har-dee-har-har," came the dry response. "Don't get cocky. This is a tricky one. Ever heard of Salade Nicoise?" Mike asked, pronouncing it perfectly.

Eyebrows raised, Steve looked up from his perusal of the paper in his hand to Mike's wide questioning eyes. "Oh, I had one of those once, at a fancy restaurant in Berkeley with a girlfriend who had a rich daddy. I loved it." He held up the paper. "That's what this is?"

Mike nodded with a smile.

Steve looked back down at the paper. "Cool."

"Well, I don't know if it's cool, but you better get started. You still got that Hibatchi out back?" On Steve's nod, he continued, "Well, get it fired up. You have to grill the tuna. And that's just the start."

With a stunned but very pleased grin, the younger man looked back up, and Mike was gratified to see the delight in the now animated green eyes. "Yes, sir." Reaching out to slap his partner's arm, Steve grabbed the cane and crossed to the backdoor, exiting out onto the patio.

Mike watched him go, his smile disappearing. He leaned against the counter, his gaze unfocusing as his left hand drifted up to rest against the brace over the still healing incision above his fractured collarbone. Try as he might, he was having no luck getting the sounds and images out of his mind.

The loud bang of the dropped book had shaken him more than he cared to admit. And not for the first time he began to doubt his ability to put this all behind him, or at least into some kind of perspective, and be able to go on with his life and his job.

For him, the horrors of Kentucky were all audial. The deafening cacophony of rifle bullets tearing apart the Galaxie was only one part of the nightmare he kept reliving; the other was the long distance horror of those two shots, while he lay helpless and grief-stricken, paralyzed with the knowledge that his partner and best friend was dead. The light had gone out of his own life at that moment, and even though Steve wasn't killed, and was indeed with him at this very moment, the flame hadn't been rekindled; he wasn't sure if it ever would be again.

In the past few hours, the realization that maybe now was the time to finally accept that captaincy they had been dangling in front of him for so many years was beginning to coalesce in his mind. He swallowed heavily, blinked quickly several times, and turned back to the counter. He didn't want Steve catching him lost in thought; this was something he had to work out on his own. The younger man had enough on his own plate without Mike adding more at this point.

Several minutes later, Steve limped back into the kitchen. "The coals are heating," he announced as he crossed to the counter and put the recipe down. He had read through it thoroughly while waiting for the coals to catch, and was a little daunted at the amount of work to be done, but felt he was up to the challenge.

As he began to pull the necessary ingredients to one end of the counter, he glanced up at Mike, who had finished searing the beef in the Dutch oven and was now sautéing the carrots and onions. Catching himself from doing a double take, Steve knew that something had transpired while he had been in the backyard; Mike's mood had definitely sobered. He glanced around the room; nothing was amiss.

Smiling wistfully to himself, Steve turned his attention back to the recipe and sighed quietly. He knew his partner was dealing with his own demons; he had hoped the older man would be able to keep them at bay until a more propitious moment.

An uneasy silence filled the room as they both went about their respective tasks. Mike could feel Steve stealing glances at him, and he knew his own mood had changed, and not for the better, in the few minutes the younger man had spent getting the Hibatchi fired up in the backyard. He mentally kicked himself for ruining the happy and relaxed mood they had managed to attain.

He stopped stirring the bacon into the pot and turned to face the other man. "Steve, I'm, ah, I'm sorry –"

"So, where did Jeannie get the idea to give you a Julia Child cookbook?" Steve interrupted him, glancing over quickly with a broad grin. "I mean, you know, I thought she might start you out with something like 'Barbequing in California' or something like that?"

Mike had frozen, his brows knit in confusion. When he realized what his partner was doing, he relaxed and an appreciative smile began to slowly build. "Oh, ah," he cleared his throat, "I don't know, I guess she thought I would need a challenge to keep me interested… I really have no idea…" He turned back to the stove and started to stir the pot again. He glanced sideways at his grinning partner, and his eyes brightened suddenly.

There was still a long and rocky road ahead, he knew, but at least he was going to have his best friend by his side as he walked it.


	37. Chapter 37

Steve was standing over the Hibatchi, a makeshift tent of heavy aluminum foil serving as a cover. He had prepared the fish as instructed on the handwritten recipe sheet, and now he was waiting patiently for it to grill on the second side. He had been in the backyard for over ten minutes now; it was necessary for him to watch the fish but it was also providing an opportunity for his partner to have some time alone to pull himself together.

He knew that Mike, like he himself, was having a hard time coming to grips with what they had gone through in Kentucky; the accidental dropping of the book had confirmed it for the younger man. But it also highlighted a fact that he was so very reluctant to accept: that he didn't think he was capable of helping the older man over this particular mountain.

He was also unable to reconcile a simple truth about himself. As he had stood with Sheriff Noble and Sergeant Pearson staring at the decimated Galaxie, he couldn't believe the only projectile that had found its mark had been the slug that had torn through his partner's shoulder. By rights, they all should have died. It had been unimaginable luck, and no small amount of skill he acknowledged modestly, to maneuver the car past the pick-ups and down the road without any further human damage.

But he had been occupied with the task of getting them out of there; Mike, who had already been shot, was lying helplessly atop Rutter, instinctively protecting the felon, anxiously anticipating the next bullet… the one that would kill him.

Steve glanced at the closed kitchen back door. _No wonder Mike didn't want to see the Galaxie,_ he thought. He himself had only a vague recollection of the large slugs tearing up the interior of the sedan; Mike, he knew, would have heard every single bullet hit its target, be it the sharp ping of metal or the muffled thud of upholstery. He would have heard every one of those forty-seven shots, including the one that had passed through his own body.

Shaking himself from his reverie, Steve looked at his watch. "Geez," he gasped as he used the tongs to remove the aluminum cover and bent closer to the tuna. Using the tongs once again to press against the scaly skin, he nodded with a pleased, closed-mouth smile and picked up the plate lying on the small table nearby. He exchanged the tongs for a chef's turner and slid the cooked fish onto the plate.

"Grilled to perfection," he announced with a flourish as he pulled open the door and reentered the kitchen, limping to the counter. He brandished the plate as a grinning Mike looked up from the stove, still presiding over the Dutch oven.

"Excellent. Step one done." He put down the large slotted spoon he was using and put the lid on the large pot. "This is ready for the oven. I can't lift it, sorry." He opened the oven door and stepped aside.

"No problem." Steve crossed to the stove and, using an oven mitt on the hot handle, picked up the Dutch oven and carefully placed it on the bottom rack. As he backed away, Mike shut the oven door.

"Okay, that's going to take about three and a half hours, so we have some time." He glanced at the plate of grilled tuna. "Why don't you start on the vinaigrette – it'll take you awhile to mince the garlic and the parsley. I'll show you how to do it."

"What, you don't think I know how to mince garlic?" Steve reached into a drawer and pulled out a garlic press.

"That's a press. It needs to be minced."

"There's a difference?"

"If Julia Child says to mince garlic, we mince garlic. Clean the knife and the cutting board you used before and I'll show you."

As Steve set about his task, Mike sat at the table and closed his eyes, resting his left hand on top of his right shoulder. The younger man glanced over. "You okay?"

Inhaling deeply as he opened his eyes, Mike nodded. "Yeah. Just a little sore. It still hurts like hell."

"I bet it does. Look, why don't you just sit there for a bit; I can figure this out."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," Steve said softly and watched as Mike closed his eyes again. He opened an upper cupboard and took out a beaten up old cookbook. Laying it on the counter, he opened the back cover and looked for the index, quickly finding what he was searching for, and flipped to the required page. Alternately glancing at the book and the cutting board, he began to very slowly mince the garlic.

Finally finding a rhythm, he settled into the task, shooting another glance towards his still silent partner. He hesitated for a second, then took a deep breath. "So, ah, I'm, ah, I'm sorry about dropping the book earlier. I should have been more careful."

Mike's eyes had opened and he studied the younger man in silence for several seconds. "You don't have to apologize for that; it was an accident, right?"

Steve nodded, staring at the cutting board and continuing to slice the garlic. "Of course, but… well, Mike, why didn't you want to see the Galaxie?" His eyes remained down; but, there, he had put all his cards on the table. He could feel Mike's eyes boring into the side of his head. He waited, concentrating on the task before him.

Mike's heart had begun to pound and he stared in an uncomfortable silence at his young friend's profile. His chest began to heave and his left hand drifted slowly down from his right shoulder to rest in his lap. "Because I didn't _need_ to see it. Because I know we all should have died in that car… Because I've never been up against that kind of firepower before and I never want to be again."

Steve had stopped moving and was staring straight ahead. When Mike finished talking, he closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

"Steve," came the heartbreakingly soft voice from across the room. The younger man looked up and met the soft and troubled blue eyes. "I don't know if I can do this anymore."

His heart skipping a beat, not expecting what he had just heard, Steve's brow furrowed sharply. "Do what?" he breathed quietly.

Mike looked down, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "My job."

Catching his breath, Steve put the knife down and turned slowly at the counter. "What are you talking about?" he asked softly.

Clearing his throat, briefly meeting the green eyes then looking down, Mike said wistfully, "Steve, I think it might be time for me to take that captaincy they keep offering me."

The uneasy silence lengthened. "Why?"

Mike swallowed heavily and tilted his head back, looking at the ceiling and inhaling loudly. "Because I don't know if I can go back out on the streets again, that's why." His left hand found its way to his right shoulder once more.

Waiting a few seconds, trying to get his sudden surge of anger under control, Steve tried not to snap. "How do you know?"

Hearing the pique in the younger man's voice, Mike met his eyes. "I don't," he admitted, "but I'm not about to put other lives at risk trying to find out." Before he could be interrupted, he continued quickly, "Look, Steve, I'm the oldest cop still on the streets. It's about time I traded in my gumshoes for a desk, don't you think?"

"No, I _don't_ think… and to be perfectly honest, I don't think you're thinking right now either." The blue eyes flashed rage but he plowed on, undaunted. "Mike, what we went through is still very fresh, you _know_ that… and you and I, well, we have different issues, obviously. But, my god, Mike, never for one second have I ever thought you and I were through on the streets… or through as partners."

He watched as the piercing blue eyes softened, staring at him as if begging for a lifeline. His heart broke at the naked entreaty on the older man's expressive face.

"I don't want it to be…" Mike closed his eyes, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I just don't know…"

With a short, sharp laugh, Steve smiled warmly, pushing himself away from the counter and taking a step towards the table. Mike's eyes snapped open and glared at him in confusion and alarm. "Michael, nobody knows," the younger man said warmly, shaking his head gently, "but we have time on our hands, you and I." He leaned back against the counter and folded his arms, in a valiant and successful attempt to look relaxed and in control. He gestured towards Mike injured shoulder with his chin. "How long are you going to be in that brace?"

As if caught out, Mike dropped his left hand and shifted slightly on the chair. "At least a month, maybe six weeks. Why?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure they're not going to let you on the streets until you're completely healed, right?"

Mike nodded reluctantly, realizing where this was going. "Right…"

Steve's warm smile got a little bigger. "So, I'm thinking, we obviously both have some, ah… issues with what we've just been through," he paused and took a deep breath, the smile wavering, "so what say you and I take the time off we have coming and, I don't know… deal with these things the best we can…" He paused again, his green eyes full of love, hope and encouragement.

"Because," he continued lightly, as he turned back to the cutting board and picked up the knife, "I am _not_ retiring, and there's no way in hell I'm breaking in a new partner, so it's you and me, Michael, and don't you forget that, all right?" He started back to work on the garlic, his eyes bright and his smile lingering. He could feel his partner's eyes on him for several long seconds, then heard a light and gentle snort. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mike get slowly to his feet and cross towards him.

His eyes back on the garlic and the cutting board, Steve felt Mike's hand on his shoulder then grip the back of his neck.

His strong fingers relaying everything he suddenly couldn't put into words, Mike stood silently beside the younger man for several long seconds. Then he removed his hand, cleared his throat, and looked at the unused ingredients still sitting on the counter. "I, ah, well, I better get started on the dessert, don't you think?"

Trying to swallow a grin, Steve nodded, still hard at work on the garlic, giving it a bit more attention that it actually deserved. He nodded genially. "Yeah, ah, that sounds like a plan to me."

As Mike moved to the other end of the counter, Steve glanced at him, biting his lip. He inhaled theatrically. "Wow, that's beginning to smell really great. You're still not going to tell me what it is? I still have to guess?"

His mind elsewhere, Mike turned back, slightly confused. "What?.. Oh, ah, no, I'm not going to tell you," he chuckled. "How are you supposed to keep those detective instincts sharp if I'm gonna give you the answer?"

"You never stop teaching, do you?" Steve asked with a laugh, adding quickly, "And you don't have to answer that, it's rhetorical."

Mike's chuckle turned into a laugh and he stared at his young partner with so much gratitude that Steve looked quickly back at the cutting board. He pointed towards the chopped garlic with the knife. "So, what do you think? Does it pass muster?"

Blinking quickly, his eyes travelling slowly from Steve's face to the cutting board, he grinned. "I couldn't've done it better myself. Bravo – or, ah, the French equivalent, whatever that is," he chuckled again, shrugging as best he could with the restricting brace.

"I don't think the French have a word for bravo, so… maybe _magnifique?_ "

Mike's head went back slightly. "So, what? You think you did a magnificent job here?"

Looking at his partner with a wary cocked head, Steve offered tentatively, "So, you're saying I _didn't_ do a magnificent job?"

"Magnificent is a little, oh, I don't know… grandiose, don't you think? I mean, after all, it _is_ just minced garlic…"

Feigning hurt and bitter disappointment, Steve stared at the cutting board. He was having trouble not grinning, overwhelming relieved that the old Mike was, temporarily at least, making a comeback. They were a long way from coming out of this long dark tunnel, but he was beginning to see a dim light at the far end.


	38. Chapter 38

**Many thanks to all those who continue to read, and those who continue to review. Everyone is appreciated. This story has gone on a little longer than intended - I hope I am keeping everyone interested. Not much longer to go, so thanks for hanging in there!**

Following the recipe meticulously, Steve managed to make a vinaigrette that was mouth-wateringly delicious, if he did say so himself. And he did, a number of times. Putting a layer of Saran Wrap over the bowl, he set it aside and went back to the recipe to figure out what to do next.

Mike was busy making the dessert, which Steve had quickly discerned to be a crème caramel. He'd had a roommate back in his Berkeley days who'd loved to bake, and had been present a few times when he'd whipped up this delicious confection. It was one of his favourite desserts and he was thrilled that it was on the menu today.

Their conversation had been light but sparse while they both worked away. Mike was still having a hard time shaking the feeling that he was starting to lose what little control he had gained over the feelings of inadequacy and anxiety that had plagued him since their plane had landed at SFO. Deep down, he knew he was being irrational, but he had no control over the emotions that kept surfacing no matter how hard he tried to keep them at bay.

In all his years on the force, and the years he had spent in the Marines during the war, he had never experienced anything even remotely as unnerving as what they had been through in the Kentucky backwoods. And he also realized he was not alone, that his young partner had experienced as much, if not more, than he had, and they needed to be strong for each other, to help one another get through this.

He was stirring the sugar and water in a large heavy saucepan. It was rather awkward using his non-dominant hand, but using the right put too much pressure on his collarbone. He was staring down at the mixture when he felt a sudden weakness in his legs. He raised his right hand and stared at it; it was shaking. His heart began to pound and he felt hot; beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

Trying to keep stirring, he glanced over at his partner, who was busy peeling the small potatoes. Reluctantly, he removed the spoon from the pot and laid it on the counter, snapping off the burner as he reached for the edge of the counter, trying to stay on his feet as he began to breathe rapidly and shallowly through his mouth. Pain shot through his chest and he gasped.

Steve looked up quickly, eyes widening in fear as Mike, his frightened eyes staring at nothing, swayed suddenly and started to buckle. Throwing the paring knife on the counter, Steve took one big step towards his partner and grabbed his arms as the bigger man folded up and dropped heavily to the linoleum floor. Mike's right hand shot to his chest and grabbed his shirt over his heart, gasping for breath.

"Mike, Mike!" Steve yelled, staring at the unresponsive man, kneeling before him with both hands on his upper arms. "What is it?... Mike… Mike… What's going on? Is it your heart?"

His chest heaving, straining to get air into his lungs, Mike's unfocused gaze finally coalesced onto his frantic partner's face. His left hand moved slowly towards Steve's head as it touched his cheek then slowly moved to the back of the younger man's neck and gripped him in that loving gesture that Steve had come to know so well.

And Steve knew.

He smiled slowly, his heart breaking, as he stared into the terrified blue eyes. "It's okay, Mike, I'm here. It's okay… it's all over, for both of us…" He could feel the tears that had filled his own eyes start to slide slowly down his cheeks. "It's over, Mike. It's over… it's over…" He kept his hands on the older man's arms, not trusting himself, knowing that he too had to let out all the pent-up fear and rage that continued to darken his soul.

Closing his eyes, he saw once again his partner's lifeless body lying on the road, felt the overwhelming grief and despair that had coursed through him in those long, agonizing seconds of limbo before Sheriff Noble had grabbed him and told him that Mike was alive.

He opened his eyes. He stared at his best friend's tear-streaked face, at the blue eyes beginning to lose their fear and agitation, hearing the gasps slowly lengthen into deeper breaths, feeling the taut muscles relax. He felt the hot tears dropping from his chin onto his lap.

Smiling encouragingly, he slowly released Mike's arms and sat back on the floor. He wrapped his arms around his upraised knees and dropped his head, his body shaking, letting the tears flow unabated.

Eventually he felt a hand on his knee and looked up. Mike, his own tears continuing to course slowly down his cheeks, had leaned forward slightly, his eyes softer now, having lost most of the apprehension and dread that had clouded them before. Receiving a reassuring smile from his young partner, Mike leaned against the counter and tilted his head back, his right hand now in his lap. He removed his left hand from Steve's knee and rested it lightly atop his right shoulder.

They sat that way for several minutes, each man needing the release, knowing that by giving in to the emotions they couldn't continue to suppress, they were opening the door through which they both needed to pass to return to the lives they once had.

Mike lowered his eyes and stared at the younger man's downturned head. As if sensing the stare, Steve looked up. Mike managed a slight smile. "You okay?"

A tentative but warm grin, accompanied by a gentle nod, was his reward.

"Yeah. You?"

Mike nodded, closing his eyes briefly. They sat quietly for another couple of minutes, almost reluctant to disturb the somewhat awkward serenity that enveloped them at the moment, despite the incongruousness of the setting.

Taking a long deep breath, Mike pushed himself away from the cabinet. He met Steve's frowning eyes with a self-conscious smile and a slight shake of his head. "I, ah, I think we have a meal still to cook…" he said softly, a lightness in his tone that he hoped would act as an apology.

"Yes, we do," Steve agreed with a grin and wide eyes, rubbing his palms over his wet cheeks quickly as he started to get up. On his feet, he reached down, grabbed Mike's left forearm and carefully helped the older man to his feet.

Letting out the held breath as he caught his balance, Mike was about to turn back to the counter when he stopped and stared at the younger man. He reached out quickly with his left hand, planted it on the back of Steve's neck then pulled him forward against his chest. Steve's arms automatically encircled the older man's chest and he tightened his grip, his head against Mike's.

They could feel each other's heart beating as they both closed their eyes. With a final clinch, Steve released his hold and took a step back, as Mike's hand slid from his neck and lingered briefly on his back.

With a quick self-conscious clearing of his throat, Steve, eyes down, moved towards his end of the counter and picked up the paring knife. He looked at the knife, then put it back down and took a step towards the sink. With Mike watching with a baffled smile, Steve picked up the soap and washed his hands. Chuckling, Mike stepped to the stove and turned the burner back on.

They worked again in silence for several minutes, Mike expertly boiling and blending the sugar and water to make the caramel. Steve glanced over from time to time during his persnickety task of peeling the tiny potatoes, impressed.

The caramel now set aside, as Mike dumped the sugar, vanilla and eggs into a mixing bowl, Steve cleared his throat. "Um, you know, we're gonna have to come up with an explanation for all this," he said cautiously.

"An explanation for what?" Mike asked as he rooted around in a drawer for a whisk, briefly anxious he wasn't going to be able to find one then relieved when he did.

Steve pointed vaguely towards the older man's shoulders with the paring knife. "Your brace and my cane. Didn't you say Jeannie's coming home in two weeks?"

Mike stopped moving. "Oh crap," he exhaled loudly, slumping as much as he could, "I forgot about that." He glanced at his companion. "You have any ideas?"

"Well…" Steve sighed, "we can't tell her what really happened, right?"

"Right."

"So, we have to come up with something? I'm thinking… I don't know, car accident, maybe? We would tell her about it this week, assure her nothing is really bad – you know, you broke your collarbone, I tore the muscles in my leg – that sort of thing. So she knows about it but doesn't need to be here, and by the time she does get here, we'll be almost back to a hundred percent?..." He paused. "What do you think?"

Beginning to whisk the ingredients in the bowl, Mike nodded with a facial shrug. "Sounds pretty good, buddy boy. I do have one question, though."

"Oh yeah, what's that?"

Mike looked up. "Who was driving?"

Steve froze. "What?"

"When we had this… 'accident', who was driving?" Mike's eyebrows were raised and he wasn't smiling.

Steve looked away. "Ah… hmmm… good question. Um, well…. ah… " Mike continued to stare. "I guess, ah, well, I guess I was driving… and we were, I don't know… hit at an intersection making a turn...?"

"So it was your fault – making an unsafe left turn?"

"Uh, no… no, wait a minute. Um, let me rethink this…" Steve looked back at the potatoes and frowned. He didn't see the warm, mischievous smile that played over his partner's lips.

Mike had picked the bowl up and was holding it with his left hand. He found if he held the bowl low and kept his right upper arm plastered against his chest, he could stir with his right hand and forearm without much pain. It was certainly easier than trying to get any kind of rhythm going with his left hand. He continued to watch as his partner struggled to come up with an acceptable explanation for their imaginary car accident, one that wouldn't make either of them look like a bad driver.

"We got rear-ended by a drunk driver?" came the hopeful suggestion.

Mike glanced up from the bowl. "Keep thinking," he ordered with a curt nod.

Nodding to himself, smiling ruefully and almost apologetically, Steve continued peeling the potatoes.

Mike swallowed a smile as he looked back at the bowl. He took a deep breath. The black cloud that had started to disburse mere minutes ago was threatening to return. As cathartic as his brief breakdown had been, he thought it might take more than just one such outburst until this was all behind them.

But right now, he hoped, they could finish preparing their meal without further interruption then, maybe later tonight, in the quiet of the evening, they could begin to lay their demons to rest, once and for all.


	39. Chapter 39

The Salad Nicoise was chilling in the fridge, the crème caramel cooling on the counter. Mike crossed to the table with two cups of coffee. "Here," he said, gingerly putting one in front of the young man engrossed in the large cookbook.

Steve glanced up. "Thanks." His eyes returning to the book, he picked up the cup and took a sip, then nodded in appreciation.

Mike eyed him with a warm smile, taking his own sip before setting the cup down on the table, keeping his left hand around it. He waited in silence for a few seconds. "I can't believe you haven't figured it out yet."

"Well, other than the fact it has beef in it, I didn't get a very good look at the preparation after you put me to work on the salad. But I think I have it nailed down…" He glanced up briefly. "God, that smells good. How much longer?"

Mike looked at the stove clock. "Another half hour. So, what's your guess?"

"Guess? No guessing involved here. The red wine gave it away, actually." He smiled triumphantly. "Beef Bourguignon."

Mike laughed sarcastically, lifting his cup and taking a sip.

Steve's face fell. "What? It's not?"

Mike shook his head and looked down. "You know, you really gotta get more confidence in yourself… of course you're right," he cackled.

Stunned, Steve paused, then shook his head and grinned. He reached across the table, pretending to smack his partner. They both laughed companionably, and it felt good.

# # # # #

Everything had turned out perfectly. The salad was delicious and perfectly prepared, the Beef Bourguignon exquisite, and it was all topped off with a divine crème caramel. The dinner talk remained light and easy, mostly about sports and what had gone on in the world the day before, courtesy of the newspaper Mike had picked up that morning and jammed into the bags of groceries.

They deeply enjoyed the food and the company, deciding to leave the cleanup for the next day. After putting a fresh pot of coffee on, Steve joined his partner in the living room; Mike was sitting on the sofa, his head back and eyes closed. His left hand was once more on his right shoulder.

"The coffee'll be ready in a bit," Steve said quietly as he slid into the armchair, patting his stomach with a wry smile. Mike nodded. "You okay?"

The older man opened his eyes and lifted his head. "Yeah," he said with a slight nod, "just tired. Long day, lots going on."

Nodding himself, Steve asked gently, "You sure that's all?"

Mike leaned forward as best he could and stared at the younger man without expression. "What do you mean?"

Steve looked down, running a forefinger along the end of the chair arm. "I mean…" he inhaled deeply, "you maybe want to talk about what happened earlier?" His eyes found Mike's.

They stared at each other for several long seconds; Mike blinked first and looked away. "I guess I'm not handling things as well as I should be… or maybe as well as I _think_ I should be…" he said haltingly.

Steve snorted mirthlessly. "I've got a bulletin for you - neither am I," he said lightly, and Mike's eyes snapped to him, frowning.

"Lenny told me you've been having nightmares. Was he right?"

Steve nodded. "Unh-humh."

Mike looked down. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Steve's brow furrowed. "What do you have to be sorry about?"

Still looking away, Mike said softly, "We never should've been there. It was never our case to begin with…"

Steve leaned forward. "Mike, that's not the issue here and you know it. Nobody could've predicted, or prevented, what happened to us in Kentucky. Damn it, the hell we were put through didn't have anything to do with the case anyway. It was a family feud we just happened to get caught in the middle of… right? So don't go blaming yourself for that; I'm not gonna let ya."

Mike sighed noisily, still not meeting the younger man's eyes. "So, ah, what are your nightmares about? Do you remember?"

"Oh, yeah, I remember… but, ah, let's talk about you first, okay... What, ah, what triggered that anxiety attack?

Mike looked up and snorted. "Was that what it was? It felt like a heart attack, or at least what I think a heart attack would feel like." He sighed again and rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand.

"Was it the car?" Steve prompted gently.

Mike nodded slightly with a facial shrug. "I'm sure that's part of it, it just all came flooding back again –"

"When I dropped that book. Damn it, I'm sorry, Mike," Steve interrupted but the older man raised a hand and cut him off.

"No, don't blame yourself for that. If it wasn't you and _here_ , someplace… safe… god knows when and where it would've happened. And I guarantee you, it _would've_ happened somewhere and I probably would've had the same reaction." He paused and took a deep breath. "I _am_ having trouble getting past that damn car, and I don't know why. I mean, god, you were in it too, in the front seat, for god's sake, and you don't seem to have that problem."

"Because I wasn't shot, Mike. I wasn't lying on top of someone in the back seat expecting to get hit again. If you can call it luck, I was lucky. I had a job to do – to get us outa there. I didn't have time to listen to each and every one of those forty-seven slugs hit the car."

Mike's stare had unfocused as Steve talked. He lifted his head and, surprisingly, a slight smile played over his lips. "I haven't had the chance to ask – how the hell _did_ you get us outa there?"

With the familiar Keller twinkle in his eye, Steve grinned warmly and shrugged. "I knew the truck was far enough in front of us that I could get the car past it, so I just cranked the wheel to the left and floored it."

"Were you looking through the windshield at all?" Mike asked in awe.

Nodding, Steve snorted lightly. "Well, sorta. I kinda peered over the dash as best I could… I kept expecting to get hit but it didn't happen, and I managed to keep the car on the road too." He chuckled self-consciously. "That was a bonus," he added softly.

"That was incredible," Mike said quietly, staring at his partner with pride. "I'm sure glad it was you behind the wheel and not me."

Steve shook his head and shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "What you did to save Rutter… man, I don't know if I could've done that, at least not as fast. Speaking of which, how _did_ you figure out they were gonna shoot at us so fast? Did Donny Lee say something?"

It was Mike's turn to snort dryly. "It wasn't what he said, it's what he didn't say. He looked… excited when the truck approached; I think he thought it _was_ his family. But when whoever it was stepped in front of the headlight, he looked terrified. I guess I knew in that split second."

Steve shook his head, impressed. "God, I'm sure glad you did. You saved us all, you know that, right?"

Mike shrugged noncommittally. "I just keep hearing those shots… they never stopped… "

Steve let the silence hang between them for several long seconds. "You know, I got the chance to talk to Sergeant Pearson about that a few days later; we talked about the firepower available in the hollers now, the fully automatic and semi-automatic rifles they have. The stuff brought back from 'Nam… He thinks it's only gonna get worse, the guns are gonna get bigger and more powerful, more rounds per second." He shrugged. "We're gonna have to think about that, about arming ourselves with something bigger and more powerful than our .38's."

Mike took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "God help us all."

Steve nodded in agreement, his brow furrowed and eyes down. He looked up and cleared his throat. "Coffee's ready. I'll be right back." He got up and disappeared into the kitchen. Mike laid his head back against the sofa and stretched as much as he could; the unnaturally arched position the brace put his shoulders in was tiring. His right shoulder was really beginning to ache from the exertions of the day but he didn't want this evening to end just yet. For the first time in days, he felt like he was starting to get a handle on the things that had been giving him so much grief.

Talking to Murchison had helped to penetrate the miasma of gloom and guilt that had hung heavily around him since his return home, but nothing could equal the solace he was finding in the company of the one person who knew, intrinsically, what he was experiencing. He only hoped that, when the time came, he could be the reciprocal pillar of strength that Steve needed him to be.

The younger man limped back into the living room with two cups in hand. He put one on the coffee table before dropping back down onto the armchair. He stared at his partner over the top of the cup as he took a sip. The older man's head was back against the sofa, his eyes closed. Steve could see the dark circles of fatigue under his eyes, and knew it was an exhaustion borne of tension and remorse rather than lack of sleep.

Slowly, Mike tilted his head forward and opened his eyes, looking down at the table. With a wince, he sat forward stiffly and reached for the cup. "Thanks," he said quietly before taking a sip.

Steve watched him closely. "So, ah, what else is bothering you?"

Mike's eyes snapped up quickly. "What do you mean?" He managed to keep the sharpness out of his voice, a little disconcerted at being read so easily.

"Come on, Mike, it's not just the car and we both know it." He leaned forward and put the cup on the table, then put his elbows on his knees, continuing to meet the blue eyes without blinking.

The older man stared back, then sighed and closed his eyes. He sat back, lowering the cup to his lap, keeping both hands wrapped around it. Opening his eyes, he cleared his throat lightly. "When I close my eyes I, ah, I keep hearing those two shots… the ones deep in the woods… the ones I thought meant you and Donny Lee were dead…" He looked down and took a deep breath. "I'll never forget that sound… never… I thought, ah… I thought…" He looked up and met his partner's eyes. "I thought you were dead… I _knew_ you were dead…" His eyes were bright but no tears fell. He was beyond tears right now.

Staring into the troubled blue eyes, Steve's concerned frown began to slowly transform into a warm smile as he laid a hand on Mike's knee. "When I heard those same shots… I thought they'd found _you._ Donny Lee kept telling me it wasn't… and I wanted so hard to believe him…" He dug his fingers into Mike's leg as he took a deep, unsteady breath. "I really wanted to believe him… but I don't think I did…"

The older man reached out, laid his left hand over Steve's and squeezed. "Thank god we were both wrong, hunh?" he asked quietly with a tiny smile.

Smiling back, Steve nodded with a quiet snort. He dropped his eyes and his gaze suddenly unfocused; he was far away, once more sitting in the passenger seat of the Caprice, watching his partner's lifeless body being dragged from the back of a pick-up.

Pulling his hand out from under Mike's, he sat back quickly with a short embarrassed laugh and ran a hand roughly through his hair, his eyes darting around the room.

"What?" Mike asked, leaning forward as best he could, his question quiet and soothing.

"Humh?" Steve's eyebrows rose as he feigned ignorance and nonchalance; Mike was having none of it.

"What did you just see?"

Steve tried to smile reassuringly and did a bad job of it. "Ah, nothing… really, nothing…" He shook his head dismissively.

Mike lowered his head, staring at the younger man from under his brow. "Do you honestly think after all we've been through and all the years we've been together you can lie to me that easily and get away with it?"

Steve stared at him, neither giving quarter. Finally Steve dropped his head, muttering under his breath, "I really don't want to get into it right now, all right?"

Mike hesitated for a split second, wavering. "Why not?" he snapped. When the younger man said nothing, he pressed. "Why not, Steve? Why do I have to come clean tonight and you don't? And don't tell me nothing's bothering you because I _know_ it is… So, what, we can talk about what I've been going through but we can't talk about you? About what's giving you the nightmares?"

With his partner's blue eyes boring into his face unwaveringly, the younger man squirmed where he sat. Then his furious green eyes snapped towards the older man. "All right," he barked with barely suppressed anger, "you want to know what's giving me nightmares, I'll tell you. It was watching them pull your body out of the back of a pick-up truck and lay you on the road… and knowing you were dead."


	40. Chapter 40

Mike didn't move. His partner's green eyes continued to drill defiantly into his own, as if daring him to say something. Eventually he closed his eyes and dropped his head as far as he could. He could feel the tears filling his eyes behind the lids and he prayed they wouldn't fall.

With a resigned sigh, his own eyes brightening, Steve 's rigid posture relaxed and he bit his bottom lip, continuing to stare at the older man. "That's what I see," he said quietly, "every time I close my eyes… They're dragging you from the truck… and you're not moving… and I can't see you breathe… and I know you're dead…"

Mike's heart was pounding, in his chest and in his ears. This was news to him; this he hadn't heard before, and he was overwhelmed. He opened his mouth to breathe, to gasp for air, his throat constricting. He couldn't swallow. Pulling himself together, knowing his young partner was watching him closely, he took a deep breath, opened his eyes and looked up. "I didn't know…" he sighed.

Steve, who had leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees, smiled warmly, then reached out and laid his right hand on Mike's knee. "I know," he said gently, "I know." He patted his partner's leg. "That's why I'm having so much trouble with all this, Mike… all I knew was – you'd died in those woods, when I left you behind… and they were giving us your body back…" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"You didn't leave me behind, Steve… that was _my_ decision, not yours… you know that." There was a desperation in the older man's voice that was disquieting.

Steve cocked his head. "I could've refused to go, you know. Direct order or not, I could've refused…" There was no sting in the words.

Mike managed a small smile. "You're too good a cop… and too good a friend…" He paused, and the smile got a little wider. "I'm glad you didn't… I was proud of you for that, still am…" He looked down and the smile disappeared. "That was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do… watch you walk away… I, ah, I had the feeling that I wasn't going to see you again, that one of us wasn't going to make it…" He closed his eyes and tears beaded the lashes. "I hoped it was me."

Overcome, Steve leaned forward even more and increased the pressure of his hand on Mike's leg. Words wouldn't come.

"When the dogs went right past me, and then I heard those shots… those two damn shots…" Mike paused, his eyes still closed, and took a deep breath. His left hand covered Steve's and he squeezed. "It was all over for me then…" He was breathing noisily through his mouth, his entire body shaking.

Steve's fingers dug into his partner's leg as he strained to get his own trembling under control. He stared at Mike's downturned face, trying to stop his own tears from falling.

Eventually the older man's breaths lengthened and taut muscles relaxed. The grip on his partner's hand eased. Steve pulled his hand away, reached up and placed it on the back of Mike's neck, squeezing gently.

"I thought they killed _you_ … those two shots…" He cleared his throat, which had tightened as he strained to hold back the tears. "Donny Lee said it wasn't… but I couldn't believe him… I wanted to, but I couldn't… All I could see was you smiling at me as I walked away… and I knew I wasn't going to see you alive again…." He increased the pressure on Mike's neck, being careful of the brace and the fracture.

"When they pulled you out of the truck, I knew… I knew I'd been right… you were gone, and it was my fault…" He took a deep unsteady breath, took his hand away from Mike's neck and sat back, looking away. Very slowly the tears he had been fighting began to slide down his cheeks.

A very tense, very raw silence lengthened. Mike closed his eyes, breathing slowly through his mouth as he tried to calm his pounding heart. Steve let his tears run their course, letting them dry, untouched, on his cheeks.

Mike opened his eyes; he could feel his partner's stare, and looked into the warmly affectionate green eyes. The younger man smiled slightly. "Never in my life have I been happier to be wrong."

Sniffing, with a short chuckle, Mike looked down. He tilted his head. "Me too."

His smile slowly building, Steve reached towards the end table, picked up a box of Kleenex and tossed it onto the coffee table with a low laugh. He pulled a couple of tissues out, leaned back and blew his nose.

Coughing self-consciously, Mike leaned forward carefully and grabbed a couple of tissues as well.

"You know," Steve said as he wadded up the used tissue and got to his feet, "this'd be a great time for a beer if we both weren't still on antibiotics."

Mike laughed, rubbing his left hand over his eyes. "I have three days to go, how about you?"

"Tomorrow." He picked up Mike's now cold cup of coffee. "Here, I'll refresh these," he said, grabbing his own as well.

As best he could, Mike slumped against the couch and closed his eyes again. He was suddenly very drained, mentally and physically. His shoulder was throbbing more than ever. He had to look for his jacket, he thought; he needed to get his pain pills from the pocket.

Steve leaned against the counter and closed his eyes. He was tired, very tired, but the ache in his soul he'd been living with for the past several days was beginning to recede. As much as he had been dreading this day, he was glad it was here and that they were navigating their tentative ways through their respective hells.

He poured the cold coffee into the sink and reached for the carafe on the warming plate. His hand was shaking and he stared at it for several long seconds. He turned to look towards the living room. His heart was still pounding, and he could feel the beginnings of a headache.

Making up his mind, he picked up the carafe and poured the coffee. When he limped back into the living room a minute later with the two fresh cups, Mike was still lying back on the sofa, his eyes closed, his breaths deep and regular.

Hearing the sound of a cup lighting hitting the table, Mike opened his eyes and leaned forward slightly. He cleared his throat. "Oh, ah, thanks, buddy boy." Trying not to wince, he reached for the cup, picked it up and took a sip. He smiled. "Thanks. I really need this."

Steve had sat back down in the armchair, cradling his cup in both hands, taking comfort in the warmth. "You're welcome. Hey, look, ah, I don't know about you but… well, I'm, ah, I'm pretty bagged right now and I wouldn't mind hitting the sack pretty soon. You're staying over, right?"

He knew there had been no discussion of Mike's staying the night up to this point, and he was pretty sure the older man had plans to go home. But suddenly he didn't want to let his partner out of his sight. He knew it was a product of their journey that day, but he was pretty sure Mike felt the same way. He had taken it upon himself to broach the subject first.

Mike shook his head. "I hadn't planned to. I'll call a cab, don't worry about it."

"No, Mike," Steve began quickly then caught himself. The older man looked up at him and he froze. With a self-conscious shake of his head, he sighed, "Look, um, I'd really like it if you could stay…"

Mike could read between the lines, and he smiled fondly, dropping his gaze. "I wish I could, Steve, I do… but I have to sleep sitting up. It's the only way I can get comfortable. Rudy got me this wedge… thing… that I have on my bed now so I can sleep sitting up…"

"You could sleep on this?" Steve said, gesturing at the chair he was sitting in. "I know you've done it before." There was a warmth in the words that Mike couldn't resist. Truth be told, he didn't want to go home to an empty house either, and he needed his partner's company now more than he would ever admit.

Mike nodded once. "All right, you talked me into it."

Steve laughed. "Good, 'cause you weren't gonna win this one. You'd've had to walk out that door dragging me behind you."

Mike's smile wavered. "Could you do me a favor and get the pain pills out of my jacket pocket?"

His brow furrowing as he got up, Steve crossed to the banister knob where Mike's jacket was hanging and slipped the plastic pill bottle out of the left pocket. "How many?" he asked as he limped back to the couch, popping the top off the bottle as he did so.

"Two," Mike said quietly, his eyes closed again and his left hand on his right shoulder.

"Here, hold your hand out."

Mike raised his right hand and Steve tapped two of the white tablets onto his palm. Mike opened his eyes, picked up his cup and swallowed the pills, then put his head back against the sofa again and closed his eyes.

Steve stood over him, brow furrowed. "You okay?"

Mike nodded. "Just sore." He opened his eyes. "How's your leg doing?"

The younger man smiled, his eyes brightening; Mike always diverted the attention from himself. "I'm doing fine. Probably won't be hopping around on it tomorrow as much as today… but it's good. Don't worry about me."

"I'll always worry about you," Mike said under his breath with a low chuckle as he closed his eyes again. "I'll just sit here for a few minutes until those pills kick in, okay?"

"Works for me. I'll just get some sheets and pillows ready for later on. Be right back." With an affectionate backward glance at his lightly smiling partner, Steve carefully made his way up the stairs to the linen closet.

When Mike heard the heavy thud on the coffee table, he opened his eyes. There were four pillows and a couple of sheets in a small pile before him. As he watched, Steve picked up a sheet, snapped it open and began to lay it on the far end of the couch. "I told you, I can't –"

"This isn't for you," Steve cut him off, smoothing out the sheet. "I'm sleeping down here… to keep you company…" He looked at the older man, then gestured at him with a raised thumb. "Up – I gotta make my bed."

Swallowing a self-conscious smile, Mike leaned forward carefully and got slowly to his feet, trying not to groan. He was moderately successful. He crossed to the stairs. "You really have to get a bathroom down here, you know," he grumbled good-naturedly as he gingerly climbed the stairs, his fatigue now very obvious.

"Tell me about it," Steve mumbled under his breath as he put two pillows on the end of the sofa closest to the armchair. He pushed the coffee table out of the way and maneuvered the chair closer to the couch so it was within easier reach.

By the time Mike made it back downstairs, both 'beds' were ready. A sheet was spread over the armchair, another draped over an arm. There was a large rolled up towel on the coffee table.

"Have a seat," Steve instructed, gesturing at the armchair.

Mike sat carefully and leaned back. He looked towards the coffee table. "What's that?"

"Remember that hint they gave us in Kentucky, about using a rolled up towel to help keep your back arched? I figure it could help tonight. Let's try it."

Mike leaned forward slightly and Steve slipped the towel behind his back, lined up with his spine. When he leaned back, a relieved smile lit his face. "That feels great, thanks."

Steve grinned. "You're welcome. Glad it helps. So, you okay?"

Mike nodded, closing his eyes.

"Pills kicking in?"

Another nod, another smile.

"Good. I'll be right back."

Mike listened as Steve climbed the stairs, returning a few minutes later. He heard lights being turned off, then the younger man lie down on the couch and get comfortable. After the long and taxing day, he couldn't find the words to describe how it felt to be where they were right now – laying their demons to rest, back in each others company, getting healthier both in body and mind.

The silence of the room was a soothing balm and he soaked it in.

Suddenly there was a light touch on his left leg, and he felt Steve's warm and gentle hand on his knee. Under the sheet, he snaked his left hand down and slid it lightly on top of his partners. Their fingers interlocked and he squeezed. With a loving smile, he relaxed back into the armchair. For the first time in days, untroubled sleep came to them both very quickly.


	41. Chapter 41

Steve looked up, his forehead furrowed, tension in his eyes. "Are you ready to do this?"

His partner swallowed heavily and bit his lower lip before he nodded. "Yeah. God knows what's going to happen… This could be one of the most dangerous, and stupidest, things we've ever done. But we can't back out now."

With a deep unsteady breath, the younger man nodded. "I agree. Okay, here goes."

They stared at each other uneasily. It was Mike who laughed first, dropping his head to rub a hand over his face. Chuckling, Steve picked up the large, heavy tray covered with a dishtowel and turned away from the counter. Mike fell into step behind him as they entered the living room, Steve trying not to limp too noticeably.

As Steve crossed to the coffee table to set the tray down, Mike stood to one side. "Gentlemen, you're probably wondering why we called you here today."

Their guests exchanged glances, nods and grunts.

"Believe me, it was more than just… difficult… trying to find a… mutually convenient period of time when you were all free, and when we could secure the, ah, how shall I put it, accommodation of your _significant others_ to provide everyone with safe passage home after our little… _soiree_."

Steve shot a glance at his partner, frowning. "You've been reading that French cookbook again, haven't you?" he whispered with a low chuckle.

"Okay, Mike," Sergeant Dan Healey chimed in, glancing at Norm Haseejian with a confused frown, "you usually don't beat around the bush so much. What the hell is going on?"

Grinning broadly, the tall lieutenant raised both hands in a quasi-surrender gesture. "Okay, okay." Steve had taken a step back and was now beside him. "As everyone knows, Steve and I spent a… bit of time in Kentucky recently and, ah, well, you all know pretty well what happened." His smile disappeared briefly and he cleared his throat. "But we're both on the mend and, ah, we'll be back at work very soon," he glared in a mock threatening manner at everyone in the room, "so the holiday will be over… _Norm_." He finished with a stare at the sergeant, who pulled his head back quickly and shot furtive glances around the room.

"What're ya looking at me for?" he stammered, and everyone laughed.

Laughing, Steve took a step forward. He flashed another look at his partner, shaking his head. "What I think Mike is trying to say is, it's gonna be great to get back but before we do, we brought a little some'in' back from the Bluegrass State that we thought ya'll might like to try."

As the younger man leaned forward to take the dishtowel off the tray, Mike said quietly, "You sound just like Eli when he gets his _Kentucky_ on." They both laughed.

"Ta-da!" Steve said with a flourish as he unveiled the tray.

"What the hell?"

"Oh my!"

"Good lord!"

"Hah, I had a feeling that's what it'd be!"

"Where did you get the second jar?" Lieutenant Martin Pierce looked with wide eyes from the tray to Steve.

"Um," the younger man stretched out the word, glancing sideways at Mike, unsure of just how much he should reveal.

"Now, now, now," Mike said quickly, coming to the rescue, "Marty, how many times have I told you, never look a gift horse in the mouth."

Steve took the bottle of bourbon, that had been lying down, and stood it up.

"Oh… my… god," Inspector Bill Tanner said under his breath as he leaned forward from his seat on the couch and picked it up. "Where the hell did you get this? This is the best bourbon you can buy. I've never tried it, only heard about it."

"It, ah, it was a gift," Mike said vaguely.

"And the rest, I take it, is moonshine?" Healey asked tentatively, waving vaguely at the two mason jars of clear liquid.

With a deep chuckle, Captain Rudy Olsen leaned back in the armchair and crossed his legs. "So, ah, Mike, Steve, what exactly _is_ going on here tonight?"

The partners exchanged wide-eyed looks then Mike clapped his hands enthusiastically. He winced, his left hand going quickly to the brace over his still healing collarbone. "Ow, yikes, forgot… I still have to be a little careful," he whined quietly, embarrassed.

"You're wearing one of those figure 8 braces, right?" Inspector Lee Lessing asked. On Mike's nod, he nodded back. "I had to wear one of those when I was a kid; I fell out of a tree. They're a pain, aren't they?"

Mike tilted his head. "Hoy, you can say that again."

"How much longer?"

"At least two weeks. I would kill for a shower right now," the older man said dryly, rolling his eyes. Everyone laughed.

"You were saying…" Olsen prompted, looking from the lieutenant to the inspector and back.

"Right," Mike nodded as Steve began to lay out the small glasses that had been previously stacked on the table. "Gentlemen, we are going to have a taste testing tonight – two… _vintages_ of homemade moonshine and, as you've already heard, the best bourbon money can buy. Now, before anyone gets on their high horse, we came by all this in a legitimate way; this is all above board.

"However, we quickly realized that it would be, well, inappropriate for the two of us," he gestured quickly between Steve and himself, "to imbibe all of this intoxicating beverage on our own. And so we thought, let's share it." Gesturing grandly towards their guests, his face split into a wide grin, matched by his partner who added a wide-eyed nod.

Before anyone had a chance to react, Mike raised an index finger. "And…" He waited till he had their full attention again. "We have steaks to grill on the bar-b-que and baked potatoes roasting in the coals, not to mention a salad chilling in the fridge. You guys are getting the full treatment tonight… just our way of saying, thanks for covering for us and just, well, you know, thanks…" He finished with his right hand over his heart.

Suddenly speechless, every eye in the room was on Mike as he dropped his head slightly and cleared his throat. Realizing he had put them all in an awkward situation, he raised his head quickly and turned to his partner. "Ah, Steve, could you do the honors?"

With a chuckle, the younger man reached for one of the jars of shine. "So, just so you know, only Mike and I know which 'shine is which – not that it matters to you guys. What we've decided, though, is that we're going to do a bit of a taste test tonight between the two 'shines and when we find out your preferences, we're gonna let the sheriff back in Kearney know which one – "

"Kearny?" Haseejian interrupted. "That town in Kentucky is called Kearny? Like the street?"

"With an 'e'," Steve enunciated, grinning. "Pretty close though, hunh?" When the Armenian sergeant nodded, Steve turned back to the tray. "As I was saying," he sighed sarcastically to several delighted chuckles, "we're gonna let the sheriff back in Kearney know which one we prefer and leave it up to him if he wants to let the families know or not."

Pierce and Olsen exchanged wide-eyed looks and they both nodded, impressed.

"Now," Steve continued, as he clocked the look between his superiors with a subtle smile, "in order to keep our palates clean between tastings – Michael, if you please," he nodded to his partner, who disappeared into the kitchen, "we have prepared a selection of small 'palate cleansers'."

Mike returned and placed a large plate and a stack of napkins on the table beside the tray. As he removed the Saran wrap from the plate, they could see small piles of sliced baguette, crackers, and cubes of cheddar cheese.

There was a low whistle. "Wow," Healey said, his voice laced with admiration, "this is impressive. You've really thought of everything."

Mike looked at Steve and smiled. "Hope so."

Steve laughed. "So, before we get started, some ground rules. We're going to start this out like a real taste testing – we'll wash the glasses after each 'round', 'cause we want to get your honest opinions. But…" he held up a finger and grinned, "while I am going to join you and indulge, Mike here is only participating in the 'first round', so to speak."

Mike nodded. "Yes, I am going to recuse myself after the initial tasting to become your host for the evening. I will be doing the cooking and making sure you all get fed, and then I will make sure you all get home safe and sound, except those of you who are staying the night," he looked pointedly at Steve.

"Gentlemen," Steve took over with a wide smile, "our goal this evening is not only to arrive at a unanimous decision regarding which of these two jars contains the superior Kentucky moonshine, but also to empty said jars as well as this amazing bottle of bourbon."

"You don't have to ask me twice," Haseejian chortled as he took off his sports coat, tossed it on the back of the sofa and rolled up his sleeves. The others chuckled as they exchanged delighted looks and grins, settling in for what promised to be an entertaining and enjoyable evening.

Mike and Steve surveyed their guests once again. It was a little odd to see everyone dressed in mufti but having them all together in Mike's living room, they knew, was just the panacea they needed right now. It had been such a long and difficult road back from their eventful sojourn into the backwoods of Kentucky, but finally things seemed to be righting themselves.

"Mr. Keller," Mike said formally as he turned to his partner and bowed as low as he could, "once more, would you do the honors?"

With a wide grin, Steve nodded. "It would be my pleasure. Gentlemen, 'shine number one." He picked up the first Mason jar and poured eight small glasses, handing them out when he had finished. Mike had brought a legal length yellow pad and a ballpoint pen in from the kitchen and, sitting in a kitchen chair that had been brought into the living room, settled in to takes notes.

"So, ah, how do we do this?" Lessing asked. "Sip or gulp?"

"Well, I tried this stuff before," Pierce said with an embarrassed shrug. "One of my boys brought a bottle back from Georgia once. It tasted like rubbing alcohol. We were told to gulp it quickly." His eyes found Steve's and he smiled apologetically. "I'm sure this is much better," he finished lamely.

"Well, ah, okay," Steve said hesitantly, "I guess it's, ah… dealers choice. Whatever you want to do, Lee."

Lessing and Healey both looked into their glasses with suddenly concerned stares.

Everyone, except Mike, with a glass in hand, Steve stood straight and held his up. "Well, here goes." He tilted his head back, prepared to toss the liquor down his throat, then seemed to think better of it, lowered his head and took a tentative sip. The others watched closely.

Steve's face remained impassive as he swallowed and licked his lips, his gaze unfocused and his brow furrowed. "Marty, you, my friend, must have been drinking what is known in the vernacular as 'hootch'. This," he announced, holding up his glass, "is not hootch." Smiling, he took another sip.

As the others exchanged glances, all of them electing to sip instead of gulp, Steve looked to his partner. "Smooth, full-bodied… definitely tastes like an up-scale vodka. Recommended."

Chuckling, Mike made a notation on the pad. "Here, pass me my glass." As approving grunts could be heard from around the room, Mike took a tentative sip. Not a big drinker, he knew he didn't have much of a palate for hard liquor; his preferences were the occasional beer, or wine with dinner, with a preference for light whites.

Steve watched as his partner's eyebrows shot up and he nodded agreeably. "Not bad, hunh?"

"Not bad at all," Mike concurred, taking a second small sip before he set the glass on the corner of the coffee table and made another notation on the pad. The others were talking amongst themselves and sipping from their glasses. Tanner had almost finished his and Olsen was eyeing the Mason jar with undisguised approval.

Mike glanced up at Steve, catching his eye. In each other's face they could read everything they had been through the past few weeks: the fear, the pain, the anguish, the grief. But they could also see what they both needed so badly right now: the laughter of friends, the restoration of health, the return to normalcy… and the unconditional and enduring love.

This was going to be the night they needed.


	42. Chapter 42

Mike glanced at his notes on the yellow pad as he took the platter of steaks out of the fridge and set it on the counter. The platter was heavy; Mike moved slowly and carefully, trying not to put any more strain on his already aching collarbone. The results of their amateur taste test were clear and unanimous – the Caudills had beaten the Rutters handily. He didn't quite know what he should do with this information; he knew he would write Sheriff Noble with the 'results', an excuse to once again thank the man for everything he and the good people of Kentucky had done for him and Steve.

"Oh, goody, you're gonna start dinner," his chuckling partner sighed as he entered the kitchen. His limp had become a little more pronounced the more alcohol he had consumed, the older man had noticed, and he was no longer trying to hide the fact that he was still recovering. "I think I'll get the salad out, don't you think? We can try to start getting something more than just cheese and crackers into these fools … I mean, our colleagues," he giggled. "Some of them are beginning to get a little… you know… soused."

"Really? _They_ are?" Mike asked dryly, eyeing his partner up and down, who looked back at him blankly, deaf to the sarcasm. "The bowls are in the cupboard up here," he continued, glancing briefly above his head, "and you know where the forks are. I made a vinaigrette; it's in the fridge door."

Steve stared at him blankly, as if this new information was slowly sinking into his consciousness. As Mike waited and watched, the younger man blinked slowly a couple of times then nodded. "Got it," he said forcefully and reached for the cupboard door. Mike ducked quickly before he got clobbered, gasping as the sudden movement jarred his shoulder.

"Oooo, sorry about that," Steve said slowly, "I'll, ah, I'll get the salad out first… let you, ah, let you take those outside…" He glanced at the steaks before taking a step back from the counter, looking suitably chastened.

With a snort of indeterminate lineage, Mike picked up the platter with both hands and crossed to the door. As he disappeared outside, he shot his pleasantly oblivious partner an exasperated glare. Carefully setting the platter down on the picnic table and lifting the lid on the glowing coals of the bar-b-que, he smiled and chuckled to himself. For a split second he regretted backing out of the evening's chief activity; a night of blissful alcohol-induced senselessness could be just what he needed.

But he had opted to be the responsible adult tonight and, if he was completely honest with himself, he wouldn't have it any other way. The role of father and caregiver had always come easily to him, even though he was the younger brother in his family, and it was one he'd always relished.

Using the long tongs, he picked the foil-wrapped baked potatoes out of the coals and placed them into a large bowl that had been sitting on the picnic table. The steaks were big enough that only four could be grilled at a time and he carefully placed them on the grate.

He had just stood back to admire his handiwork when the back door opened and Olsen came out to join him. The captain looked back over his shoulder with a low chuckle. "It's getting a little loud in there; I hope you have broad-minded neighbors."

Mike snorted. "Hey, they owe me one – or several. I don't know how many times over the years I've turned a blind eye, or deaf ear, to the parties going on around here. I haven't had a get together like this since Helen passed."

"Yeah, I kinda figured it would've been at least that long," Olsen nodded as he stepped up onto the picnic table bench and sat on the top. "Feels good to be back here again."

"Yeah, it does," Mike agreed. He stepped away from the grill and sat beside his old friend. "Thanks for coming tonight, Rudy. I, ah, I heard what you did for Steve… I'm glad you were there for him. It, ah, it seems I was commandeering all of Lenny's time and energy, so I'm glad Steve had you. I know he had just as many problems as I did… probably more…"

"Well, I'm just glad I could be there for him. I'll admit, Mike, I was a bit apprehensive when Lenny asked me to stay with him. I mean, Christ, I'm not a psychiatrist, what if I said the wrong thing? But, you know, once I started talking to him, and him to me, it just all kinda made sense."

Mike was nodding along as Olsen spoke. "Yeah, that's pretty well what Lenny and I did too. Just talk. It's amazing once you give voice to something, actually hear the words coming out of your mouth that you never thought you could ever say… things you thought you could never _put into_ _words_ in the first place… you finally get some kind of perspective…" He paused. "I don't know if I've worked my way through it all yet but, you know, it's gotten a lot easier to start to put it behind me… and it gets just a little bit easier every day."

For the first time, he turned and looked at his boss. "I know I'm lucky though. I survived… and I still have Steve."

Olsen smiled warmly and nodded, remembering the horrific sight of the torn up Galaxie, still in awe that they had gotten out alive.

Mike slid off the table and stepped to the grill, skillfully turning the steaks. "Could you do me a favor and bring out the plates? I forgot 'em," Mike called over his shoulder.

"Oh, of course," Olsen said, getting off the table and disappearing into the kitchen. The door had barely closed behind him when it opened again and Pierce walked out onto the patio, a glass of bourbon in his hand.

"Umm-umnh," he moaned, sniffing the air, "that smells terrific, Mike. Hey, thanks again for inviting me along tonight; I appreciate it."

Busy making sure the four steaks were grilling evenly, Mike glanced over his shoulder. "You've very welcome, Marty. It's the least we could do to, you know, thank you guys, especially you and Rudy making the trip out to Kentucky and all that. We appreciated it, we really did. Besides, we knew we couldn't drink all that stuff they sent us home with by ourselves," he finished with a laugh.

Pierce hefted his glass. "Well, Bill was certainly right about this bourbon – best stuff I've ever had, that's for sure."

Olsen joined them, placing the stack of dinner plates on the picnic table. "Well, I'd say we were leaving the young people back in there to go at it, but Norm and Dan aren't too much younger than you, Marty. Must be a sergeant-lieutenant thing. What do you think, Mike?"

"I'm not going there," their host laughed. "Here, pass me a plate. These babies are ready." Olsen picked up a plate and held it for Mike to spear a steak and drop it onto. "Marty, don't just stand there, use those tongs to put a baked potato on each plate, and then you two deliver them. These're for Bill, Lee, Norm and Dan; Steve'll eat with us on the second shift."

"Yes, sir," Olsen said with a grin and a chuckle, as his plates were filled and he turned towards the kitchen.

"There's sour cream in the fridge, bowls of butter, bacon bits, shredded cheddar and chives on the kitchen table, as well as knives, forks and napkins. Tell them to help themselves… Oh, and tell Steve to be patient, his steak is going on the grill right now."

Olsen disappeared through the kitchen door, Pierce on his heels. With a happy smile, Mike turned back to the grill and carefully laid out the remaining four steaks.

# # # # #

The booming laughter, punctuated by confusing and irritatingly high-pitched giggles, coming from the living room was making conversation in the kitchen impossible, so Mike, Olsen and Pierce made their way back out to the patio. While Mike was sticking with club soda and lemon, the other two were nursing small glasses of bourbon. The percolator was plugged in and ready to go, but by this stage of the evening, the pickled five in the living room were beyond salvation.

With a chuckle, Mike plopped his plate on the picnic table and took a seat, the others following suit. "At least we can hear ourselves think out here."

They resumed their meal. "Wow, these steaks are great. Thanks again, Mike, really. I don't do much cooking anymore, well, you know, since the divorce, so getting a home-cooked meal once in awhile is a real treat. My hat's off to you, Mike, you really know how to put a meal together. That salad was phenomenal."

The older lieutenant smiled self-consciously. "Well, Jeannie's been trying to get me to cook more than just tuna casseroles and grilled cheese sandwiches, and I'm finding out that I really like it… the cooking part that is."

"Speaking of Jeannie," Olsen piped up, "she should be coming home on break shortly, right?"

Mike nodded, swallowing. "Next week."

"Did you, ah, did you tell her about…?" He let the rest of the question hang, gesturing towards Mike's right shoulder with his knife.

Shaking his head, Mike cut another piece of steak. "Not yet. I talked to her while we were still in Kentucky, as you know, and a couple of times since we've been back, but I haven't had the nerve."

"You're not going to be able to –"

"I know, I know," Mike cut his boss off, "I don't know if I want to tell her the truth, you know, so… Anyway, Steve and I have been giving it some thought. It's tough coming up with something that would explain both my broken collarbone and his limp… We sort of came up with a car accident…" He shrugged as best he could with a perplexed smirk.

Olsen looked down at his plate. "Why _don't_ you tell her the truth, Mike? She's not a kid anymore, she can understand what you and Steve went through and why you didn't want to tell her over the phone. Hell, she worries about you anyway, don't make it any worse for her by not telling her when something happens to you, or Steve. That's not being fair to her, and it'll only make her worry more. Believe me, I know."

Mike had studied his old friend as he talked, and he nodded solemnly. "You're right, Rudy. Hell, she'd see through us anyway… well, me for sure." He paused. "You know, maybe explaining it all to her, well, maybe it'll help Steve and me deal with the whole thing even more. Bottling it all up doesn't seem to work, that's for sure," he sighed as he put another piece of steak in his mouth.

Pierce had sat back and watched as his colleagues talked. He picked up his bourbon glass and took a sip then put it back on the table with a heavy thud. "You know, I've been giving what happened back there in Kentucky a lot of thought over the past couple of weeks since we've been back. And you and Steve, you did everything right, Mike… everything."

He put his forearms on the table and leaned forward. "Do either of you play chess?"

Olsen shook his head but Mike nodded. Pierce looked at him. "Then you've heard the term 'dead draw'?"

Mike froze then began to nod slowly, a very slight smile playing over his lips. Olsen looked from Pierce to Mike and back again, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What's this 'dead draw' all about?"

Pierce's eyes slid from Mike's to Olsen's. "It means neither player has a realistic chance of winning… That's what happened in Kentucky, I believe. Neither side won."


	43. Chapter 43

**Thanks to everyone who came along on this journey - it's not been an easy one to write, nor probably to read and I appreciate those who stuck it out. Many thanks as well to my regular readers and reviewers - I hope I kept you entertained and interested.**

Mike took a sip of coffee, glancing at his watch as he put the mug down on the kitchen table. "I better start laying off the caffeine or I'll never get to sleep tonight," he chuckled.

Pierce's eyebrows rose. "You seriously think you're going to be getting _any_ sleep tonight? It's already two. How long do you think it's gonna take to get those knuckleheads out of here?"

Olsen glanced uneasily at his host and his agreeing chuckle seemed a little subdued, but neither of the others seemed to notice. "So what's the battle plan?" he asked.

"Well, I have cabs lined up for everyone, on me, so don't worry about that. I already called Yellow Cabs and they know what's up, so that's all been taken care of. Dan lives near here, Bill and Norm live close to each other so they can share one. Lee gets one; Steve's staying here. Do you guys mind sharing one?"

"I, ah, I drove," Olsen confessed. At Mike's sudden frown, he continued quickly, "Look, I knew I would do a little drinking first thing but I also suspected that I'd stop early enough to be cold sober by the time everything broke up. And since that glass of bourbon just before dinner, I've stuck to colas and coffee." He held a hand out; it was steady. "See, sober as a judge."

Mike stared at the hand then back up at his boss's face. "You know that depends on what judge you're talking about, right?"

Pierce's eyebrows furrowed then he laughed. "He's got you there, Rudy. Remember ol' Jackson Wyatt? Retired about, oh, six, eight years back? I once saw him put away a full tumbler of scotch while we were in recess then get back on the bench and carry on like nothing was wrong."

Olsen smiled but stared at his host without flinching. "Don't worry about me, Mike, I'd never drive if I felt I was compromised. And I can drive Marty here home." He paused, "Besides, who's going to help you get all those drunks down your steps and into cabs? You're still on the DL, remember?"

Mike finally smiled. With a loud sigh, he nodded, "Okay, all right, you win. Just tell Marie I had nothing to do with it, right? That I asked you to be driven here, okay?"

"Don't worry, I'll handle Marie." Olsen laughed as he got to his feet. "I don't know about you two, but it's gotten way too quiet in there for me." He gestured towards the living room with his head.

Both Mike and Pierce looked towards the kitchen door, suddenly equally alarmed. "You're right," Mike whispered theatrically, getting up. "Do you think they're all asleep?"

The three men tiptoed to the entrance and peeked into the living room. Steve and Dan were on the couch; Norm in the armchair. Bill was on one of the kitchen chairs while Lee was sitting on the floor. All heads were back, all eyes were closed, and more than one was snoring softly.

The coffee table was piled high with dirty glasses, an empty Mason jar, a large ashtray filled with numerous cigarette and two cigar butts, two large empty bowls, several empty potato chip packets, and five mugs. The second empty Mason jar and the bourbon bottle were on the carpet near the armchair, together with more dirty glasses and two piles of haphazardly stacked plates, denuded t-bones and cutlery piled on top. Dirty cloths napkins were everywhere.

Mike sighed. "I think you were right about not getting any sleep tonight." He chuckled. "Rudy, can you call the cab company? Tell 'em we just need three cabs instead of four, and apologize, please? The number's on the pad near the phone."

"Will do," Olsen grinned as he turned back to the wall phone.

Mike and Pierce exchanged a wide-eyed stare. "Well," Pierce chuckled, "where do you want to start?"

Mike laughed. "Your guess is as good as mine. Let's try to wake 'em up, I guess. Good luck." He took the few steps to the closest comatose man, Haseejian in the armchair. With his left hand, he grabbed his sergeant's upper arm and shook. "Norm, Norm, wake up," he urged. There was a grunt and the Armenian detective squirmed, trying to break the grip, but he remained asleep. Mike shook him harder, "Norm!"

Haseejian's eyes snapped open and he stared at the older man in confusion. "Oh, hi, Mike," he slurred eventually, a goofy grin appearing on his broad face, "what's up?"

Chuckling, Mike attempted to pull the big man to his feet. "You, Norm, you've got to get up. It's time to go."

"Time to go?" Haseejian mumbled as he tried to stand, continuing to stare at Mike. "Go where?"

"Home, Norm, you're going home."

"I am? Oh, good, I like home."

"That's good," Mike said soothingly, trying not to laugh as Haseejian caught his balance and began to follow. When they got to the door, Mike opened it, hoping the crisp, fresh outdoor air would begin to clear the funk and smoke from indoors.

"You're tall, you know that?" Haseejian mumbled, staring up at his boss. "I don't remember you being that tall… When did you get to be so tall?"

"It's the brace, remember?" Mike explained patiently, "I've told you that several times tonight already, remember?"

Haseejian's entire face creased as he struggled with the question. His eyes suddenly widened. "Nope, I don't remember…"

"Okay, Norm, okay," Mike chuckled quietly, patting Haseejian's forearm. "You just stay right here. I gotta get Dan, okay?"

"Okay, Mike," Haseejian nodded as Mike transferred his hand to the doorframe. "I'll stay here."

"Good." Mike shook his head quickly as he moved back towards the couch, glancing at Pierce and trying not to laugh. The Narcotics lieutenant had managed to rouse Tanner and Lessing and they were both on their feet, beginning their navigation towards the front door as well.

Mike was approaching Healey when Olsen entered from the kitchen. "Cabs are on their way. I'll get Dan, Mike; you wake Steve up."

"No, no, no," Mike said quickly, "I'll let him sleep until you guys all leave. I might just leave him there all night."

"Good plan."

"One of the cabs is here!" Pierce called from the stoop. "I'll take Norm and Bill down. Wish me luck!" he cackled as they heard him continue, "Okay, you two, careful on the stairs. I don't want no broken bones, you hear me."

# # # # #

Less than five minutes later, all the drunken cops were safely in cabs and on their way home. Mike, Olsen and Pierce were standing in the open front doorway, surveying the still dormant Steve Keller and the detritus from a great evening well spent.

"Really, Mike, we could stay for a bit and help you start to clean up," Olsen said once more and his old friend shook his head again.

"Rudy, I already told you, I'm gonna leave it and get Steve, hungover or not, to help me in the morning. Don't worry about it. And don't forget, neither one of us is going back to work for a couple of weeks anyway – so what else do we have to do?"

"If you're sure...?" Pierce reiterated, and Mike gave a final nod.

His two guests had taken another step towards the staircase when Olsen turned to Pierce. "Marty, could you do me a favor?" He took out his keys. "I, ah, I need to talk to Mike for a few minutes. Could you wait in the car?"

Pierce froze for a split second, his eyes darting from Olsen's to Mike's, then he reached out and took the keys. "Sure, not a problem. Thanks again, Mike, it was a great night." He turned and started down the steps.

"You're welcome, Marty," Mike whispered loudly to Pierce's retreating back, ever mindful of his neighbours. He turned to Olsen with a troubled brow. "What's going on, Rudy?"

Olsen studied his old friend and sighed loudly. As he reached for the front door to pull it closed, he gestured with his head. "Have a seat."

Swallowing involuntarily, worry on the rise, Mike sat on the top step. Olsen dropped down beside him.

"What's going on?" Mike asked again.

Olsen inhaled deeply. "I didn't want to tell you earlier… 'cause I didn't want to spoil the evening. But I thought you should know tonight…" He watched as Mike swallowed heavily, apprehension and fear growing in the blue eyes.

"I, ah, I got a call early this afternoon… from the Kentucky State Police. There was a… an incident yesterday… near Kearney. A couple of the moonshine running families… There was a gunfight…"

Mike didn't move, staring into Olsen's eyes, not blinking. The captain could hear his friend's breaths getting deeper and deeper.

"Two members of the Scobie family were killed… so was one of the Rutter family. And thirteen family members were wounded, some of them critically." Olsen looked away briefly and took a deep breath. "Mike, Sheriff Noble was killed… so was a KSP officer. Not one of the ones we met but… Deputy Carter was shot but he's going to survive… and two others KSP troopers were wounded as well…"

Mike still hadn't moved, but his gaze was now down and unfocused and his breaths were audible. Olsen laid a hand on his forearm and squeezed. And waited. They sat in silence for a long minute then, without a word, Mike began to stand. Olsen shot to his feet and helped the injured man up, staring at him the entire time, concerned about the lack of response.

Mike had turned to his front door then back to his old friend. "Ah, thanks, Rudy… thanks. Um, I can take it from here…thanks…" As he reached for the doorknob, Olsen grabbed his hand.

"Mike, Mike…" The lieutenant stopped but continued to stare at the door. "Are you all right?"

Mike glanced at the captain and a dead, perfunctory smile briefly crossed his lips. "I'm fine. Don't worry about me," he said quickly, grabbing the knob and opening the door.

Olsen's grip tightened. "Are you sure?" he demanded.

Mike hesitated then his face softened and a small, warm smile surfaced below the pain-filled eyes. He inhaled raggedly. "Thanks for telling me, Rudy, really… and thanks for waiting… seriously, I appreciate it." He paused and sighed heavily. "I just, ah… I just have to process it now, you know… I just, ah, I need to be alone, okay?"

Olsen nodded slowly and removed his hand. "Okay," he said quietly, "okay. You take care of yourself, okay? I'll call you tomorrow." Mike nodded. "Take care of Steve too, okay?"

Mike, his eyes suddenly bright, nodded again. "Yeah, yeah, I can do that… thanks again, Rudy…" As he stepped across the threshold into his house, he felt Olsen's hand pat his back comfortingly.

He closed the door then leaned against it, squeezing his eyes shut. He stood there for several long seconds, breathing deeply, trying to stop his mind from racing, his thoughts from pounding against his skull. Although the kitchen overhead was on, the living room was only illuminated by one endtable lamp, bathing the room in a warm amber glow.

He took an unsteady step towards the couch, staring at his sleeping partner. Making up his mind, he crossed to the kitchen to turn off the overhead, then climbed the stairs to the second floor. He came down seconds later with two pillows and a blanket, dumping them on the armchair. He pushed the laden coffee table out of the way, then placed the pillows on the far end of the sofa.

Bending carefully, he put his left hand on his partner's shoulder and gently shook him. "Steve, Steve," he said quietly. When there was no response, and being careful not to aggravate his right shoulder, he shook the younger man harder and raised his voice. "Steve, wake up! I need you to wake up!"

With a groan, his head flopping back and forth, the younger man finally opened his eyes. Mike stopped the shaking as the green eyes focused and found his face. "Oh, hi, Mike," Steve slurred, smiling sloppily. "What are you doing here?"

Despite everything he was feeling, Mike dropped his head and chuckled. When he looked back up, there was a warmth in his eyes and a slight smile on his lips. "I live here. Look, you're drunk and you're going to sleep here tonight. I just need you to lie down."

"To what?"

"To lie down." He gestured with his head towards the other end of the sofa. "See the pillows. I want you to lie down and go to sleep. Can you do that for me?"

Steve's head had turned very slowly towards the pillows and back, and he blinked heavily several times. "Sure… I can lie down…" he chuckled, swaying where he sat.

"Okay, good," Mike smiled back, carefully putting both hands on his partner's upper arms and starting to push him down onto the couch.

"Whoaa!" Steve howled as he felt himself moving sideways, giggling when his head finally hit the pillow. He blinked up at Mike with a grin plastered across his face, looking very pleased with himself.

Smiling fondly, Mike picked up the blanket, flapped it open then laid it over his partner. "Go back to sleep, and I'll see you in the morning, okay?"

"Okay," Steve chuckled back, still grinning stupidly. Silently, Mike stared at him for several seconds then began to turn away.

"Mike," he heard the slurred voice as he started towards the stairs. He turned back. Steve was staring at him, blinking slowly. "I love you, you know..." There was a nervous, drunken giggle. "I've told you that before, haven't I?" Suddenly the green eyes looked worried.

Mike smiled. "Yeah," he said slowly, "you've told me that before." They stared at each other, then Steve nodded ponderously. "I mean it, you know."

Nodding, and still smiling, Mike said quietly, "I know you do. Go to sleep."

With a happy groan, a grin lighting his face, Steve closed his eyes and snuggled into the pillow.

His smile disappearing, Mike turned off the lamp, crossed to the stairs and started up. Halfway to the second floor, he stopped, turned around and sat. In the dark, he looked towards the couch. He sat there for a very long time, staring into the blackness, listening to the gentle, even breaths of his partner, his buddy boy, his best friend.

He got up from the step and made his way to his room. Without turning on the light, he crossed to the bed and sat. Eventually he crawled onto the bed and leaned back against the pillows piled against the wedge. He stared towards the ceiling, his eyes having adjusted to the dark.

Wincing, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder, he leaned forward and brought his knees up. He wrapped his arms around his shins and dropped his head onto his knees. And he wept.


End file.
